THE  STRANGERS 
WEDDING 

ft 

W.L.GEORGE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Richard  Petrie 


THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 


BY  W.  L.   GEORGE 


THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

THE  SECOND  BLOOMING 

A  BED  OF  ROSES 

THE  CITY  OF  LIGHT 

UNTIL  THE  DAT  BREAK 

THE  MAKING  OF  AN  ENGLISHMAN 

OLGA  NAZIMOV 

WOMAN  AND  TO-MORROW 

DRAMATIC  ACTUALITIES 

ANATOLE  FRANCE 


THE  STRANGERS' 
WEDDING 

THE  COMEDY  OF  A  ROMANTIC 


BY 

W.  L.  GEORGE 

Author  of  "The  Second  Blooming,"  etc. 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN  AND  COMPANY 
1916 


Copyright,  1916, 
BY  W.  L.  GEORGE. 

Copyright  in  Great  Britain,  Ireland  and  British  Colonies  and 
in  all  countries  under  the  Convention  by  W.  L.  George. 


All  rights  reserved 


Published,  January,  1916 

Reprinted,  January,  1916 

February,  1916 


grtntrw 
8.  J.  PARKHILL  ft  Co.,  BOBTOK,  U.S.A. 


acknowledging  that  I  owe  him 
the  original  idea  on  which  this  novel  is  based, 
and  hoping  that  he  will  overlook  the  many 
places  where  my  writing  has  fallen  short  of 
his  intention,  I  feel  pleasure  in  dedicating  this 
book  to 

A.  W.  ROGERS 


905385 


PART  THE  FIRST 

LEAVES  OF  OAK 


A  sore-hipped  hippopotamus,  greatly  flustered, 

Was  grumbling  at  his  poultice  made  of  custard: 

"  Can't  you  put  upon  my  hip 

Something  better  than  this  flip?" 

So  they  put  upon  his  hip  a  pot  o'  mustard. 

(Limericks  of  the  Edwardo-Georgian 
transition  period). 


THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

CHAPTER  THE  FIBST 

"  OUT    OF    THE   EVERYWHERE    .         ." 


THROUGH:  tlie  railings  of  Green  Park  he  could  see,  far 
away  in  the  south,  the  tower  of  Westminster  Cathedral 
pointing  as  a  gigantic  finger  towards  Heaven.  Or  to- 
wards nothing,  thought  Huncote.  Who  could  say? 
The  brick  spear  pleased  him,  its  air  of  indication  and, 
more  ambitious,  its  Atlas  boast  of  bearing  upon  a  single 
pillar  paradise,  while  rooted  in  hell.  The  day  indeed 
was  theological ;  not  one  of  those  London  days  when  the 
skies  seem  to  pour  mud  and  the  fear  of  death  transmutes 
itself  into  a  fear  that  one  may  never  die,  nor  yet  one  of 
those  days  when  all  men  see,  as  Blake,  a  host  of  angels 
in  a  flaming  sky.  It  was  a  grey  and  undefined  October 
day  of  doubt,  of  trees  still  clad  but  shabbily,  of  soft  air 
still  warm,  yet  hinting  that  its  child  might  be  cold.  No 
blustering  wind,  but  a  world  undefined,  as  if  arrested, 
hesitating,  upon  the  brink  of  an  inevitable  plunge  into 
some  other  world. 

For  a  little  while  Huncote  amused  himself  with  a 
speculation  that  was  a  habit  rather  than  an  amusement. 
He  was  not  interested  in  the  hereafter;  at  Oxford  he 
had  had  his  religious  fit  as  other  men  have  their  drink- 
ing fit,  or  womanise  or  row.  He  had  been  particular 
about  vestments  and  their  proper  colours,  then  veered 


4      THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

towards  Luther,  and  even  frequented  a  chapel  with  a 
corrugated  iron  roof.  He  had  read  number  90  of 
"  Tracts  for  the  Times  ",  and  Haeckel  on  the  top.  Out 
of  chaos  had  come  no  order,  but  rather  a  feeling,  half- 
optimistic,  half -sceptical,  that  in  the  end  heavenly  mercy 
or  revenge  could  take  the  hindmost.  He  was  a  sort  of 
insured  agnostic.  That  morning  he  found  it  impossible 
even  to  admit  anything  immaterial,  to  reconcile  with 
roaring  Piccadilly  behind  him  that  giant  finger  pointing 
to  the  sky.  And  more  proximate  objects  made  him  into 
a  clearer  materialist.  For  it  was  not  so  cold  yet  that, 
upon  the  meadow  alongside  the  Ritz  that  is  like  a 
badly  laid  green  carpet,  the  forgotten  tramps  of  London 
could  not  lie.  There  they  were,  each  apart  from  his 
fellow,  maintaining  the  last  dignity  of  the  poor :  keeping 
himself  to  himself.  Things  half-asleep  upon  the 
benches,  with  effaced  arms  and  legs,  heads  sunken  into 
chests  as  if  the  hats  were  too  heavy  for  tired  necks ;  and, 
scattered  all  about  the  meadow,  as  upon  a  battle-field  the 
slain,  others  screwed  up  for  warmth  and  limbless,  or 
fallen  upon  their  backs  with  upward-pointing  knees ;  or 
on  their  sides  with  an  outthrown  arm  and  straggling 
fingers  clutching  at  nothing. 

Huncote  looked  at  them  for  a  long  time :  "  The 
pageant  of  the  people,"  he  told  himself,  "  there's  some 
of  it." 

For  a  moment  he  hated  them,  was  disgusted  as  he 
thought  of  those  bodies,  meagre,  unfed,  unwashed,  evil- 
smelling,  temples  of  beastly  little  minds,  merely  lustful 
and  mainly  revengeful  unless,  which  was  still  worse, 
those  minds  were  just  brought  down  to  brute-level. 
But  in  a  second  the  mood  passed  and,  as  Huncote  gazed 
through  the  railings  which  he  held  with  both  hands,  he 
was  seized  with  pity  and  a  sort  of  self-reproach.  For 
what  were  they  doing,  these  hands,  in  such  a  world, —  in 
the  brand-new  reindeer  gloves  which  he  had  bought 
across  the  road  ?  Those  long,  slim  fingers  in  the  beauti- 


"OUT  OF  THE  EVERYWHERE"     5 

ful,  soft  grey  skin, —  how  ineffectual  they  looked !  He 
hated  them  in  that  moment  because  he  knew  that  those 
fingers  shrank,  as  if  by  instinct,  from  the  idea  of  touch- 
ing that  evil  upon  the  grass  which  after  all  was  still 
man.  And  he  knew  that  a  time  must  come  when  he 
must  touch  it,  and  not  even  with  half -guinea  gloves  but 
with  bare,  shrinking  hands.  "  Only  like  that,"  he 
thought,  "  can  I  justify  myself ;  only  by  practising  no- 
bility can  I  avoid  being  ignoble  in  my  own  luxurious 
way." 

He  sighed.  It  would  have  been  much  nicer  not  to 
have  had  a  conscience,  or  a  sense  of  duty,  or  an  impulse 
of  pity,  or  rot  of  that  sort,  and  just  to  have  been  a  blood 
or  something  simple.  Still,  there  it  was!  Before  he 
could  go  any  farther  into  his  meditation,  a  hand  had 
smacked  him  upon  the  shoulder. 

"  Hallo !  Huncote !  What  are  you  staring  at  ? 
Isn't  it  a  bit  early  to  mark  down  Eve  in  the  Garden  of 
Eden?" 

Huncote  turned  to  look  at  the  speaker,  only  half  un- 
derstanding him. 

"  Hallo !  Piggy !  "  he  said.  "  What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

"  I'm  going  to  lunch,"  said  Piggy,  otherwise  Gorsley, 
"  which  strikes  me  as  being  more  filling  to  the  body  than 
the  meditation  with  which  you  are  evidently  satisfying 
your  soul." 

Huncote  smiled.  "  D'you  know,  Piggy,  that's  not 
quite  idiotic.  I  suppose  I  was  satisfying  my  soul  in  a 
sort  of  way." 

"  And  has  it  occurred  to  you,"  said  Gorsley,  "  that 
spiritual  exaltation  sometimes  leads  to  appetite  —  that 
monks  are  good  trenchermen  —  and  that  the  highest 
flights  of  the  spirit  are  limited  by  the  weakness  of  the 
flesh  ? "  He  grinned  comically  at  his  own  incipient 
paunch.  "  Though  I  may  not  look  it,  O  Cardinal 
Quixote,  I  too  have  been  the  home  of  Seven  Devils,  and 


r6      THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

have  been  visited  of  all  of  them.  The  worst  of  them, 
I  confess,  by  which  I  mean  the  most  pleasing,  is  the 
demon  of  greediness.  In  short,  I  am  wasting  valuable 
minutes  which  I  intended  to  pass  at  the  club  over  the 
way  where  I  now  crave  your  presence." 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  said  Huncote,  "  since  you  have 
dragged  me  back  to  the  world.  You  really  are  a  swine, 
Piggy>  y°u  know." 

"  What  else  would  you  expect  from  a  man  with  so 
elegant  a  nickname  ? "  asked  Gorsley  comfortably. 
"  Funny  thing,"  he  went  on  as  they  crossed  the  road, 
still  talking  busily  as  they  dodged  among  the  motor- 
buses,  "I  don't  mind  being  called  i  Piggy/  Always 
was  called  something  of  the  sort.  I  was  '  Fatty '  in  the 
nursery,  and  '  Tubby '  at  Marlborough,  and  at  Gabs  it 
was  '  Piggy.'  Can't  get  away  from  lard  somehow ! 
Still,  I'm  nearing  the  end,  I  think." 

"  How's  that  ?  "  asked  Huncote,  as  they  took  off  their 
overcoats  in  the  club  lobby. 

"  Well,"  said  Gorsley,  "  I  should  say  that  in  a  few 
years  no  more  spermacetian  suggestions  will  be  made 
about  me;  the  climate  of  India  with  luck  will  see  to 
that.  In  five  years,  Huncote,  you  won't  know  me;  I 
shall  be  as  thin  as  a  lath,  as  they  say  in  the  halfpenny 
papers,  and  yellow  as  a  guinea,  in  the  eloquent  phrase 
of  Thackeray,  and  long  as  a  day  without  bread,  to  quote 
our  gay  neighbours  across  the  Channel.  I  shall  be  a 
complete  Indian  civilian,  with  one  little  body  and  one 
large  liver.  It'll  be  a  change,  anyhow." 

The  first  part  of  lunch  was  entirely  occupied  by 
Gorsley's  anticipations  and  not  very  evident  fears  of  the 
examination  for  the  Indian  Civil  he  would  have  to  stand 
in  another  fourteen  months.  He  was  a  rather  noisy, 
bounding  young  man,  extremely  sure  of  himself  and 
prepared  to  play  football  with  the  world ;  at  Oxford  he 
had  sat  on  most  committees  and  had  enlivened  them 
with  drifting  eloquence.  He  was  fond  of  beer  and 


"OUT  OF  THE  EVERYWHERE"     7 

champagne,  of  caviare,  boiled  mutton,  pretty  townees, 
and  of  the  girls  who  came  up  to  Oxford  for  Eights: 
he  could  circulate  the  cups  at  tea  parties,  and  correctly 
address  the  daughter  of  a  duke  who  had  married  a  com- 
moner later  raised  to  the  peerage  and  who  ultimately 
ended  as  a  dowager.  Also  he  was  amazingly  like  a  pig, 
with  eyes  that  appeared  only  from  time  to  time  as  the 
ray  from  a  lighthouse ;  his  chubby  mouth  and  his  large 
nose  suggested  an  amiable  potato.  Falstaff  as  cherub ! 
One  did  not  overlook  Gorsley ;  though  he  had  just  come 
down  from  Oxford,  even  the  club  waiters  respected  him. 

Towards  the  end  of  lunch  Gorsley,  who  so  far  had 
with  assumed  modesty  explained  why  he  had  not  the 
ghost  of  a  chance  of  a  really  good  job,  suddenly  swerved 
towards  the  affairs  of  his  friend. 

"What  about  you?"  he  asked  suddenly.  "What 
have  you  got  in  your  eye  ? "  Then,  before  Huncote 
could  reply:  "D'you  know,  I  used  to  think  —  you 
being  a  brainy  sort  of  chap  and  all  that  —  you  might 
have  a  chance  of  a  fellowship." 

"  Not  likely.  I  floated  frightfully  in  Schools.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  want  to  be  a  don." 

"  Well !  "  said  Gorsley,  with  large  generosity. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Huncote.  "I  have  talked  of 
becoming  a  don;  .every  other  freshman  talks  of  that, 
but  it  isn't  in  my  line.  Oxford's  too  damp,  for  one 
thing;  the  home  of  neuritis;  how  the  dons  manage  to 
look  so  dry  in  an  atmosphere  like  that,  I  don't  know." 

"  Celibacy,  my  dear  fellow,"  boomed  Gorsley. 
"  Celibacy,  whether  married  or  not."  And  for  a  while 
he  dilated,  a  little  to  Huncote's  discomfort,  upon  the 
temperature  of  the  passions  of  various  fellows  of  Ga- 
briel. But  Gorsley  was  inquisitive ;  he  had  been  to  so 
many  tea  parties,  made  so  many  enquiries,  known  the 
outside  of  so  many  people  and  the  inside  of  so  few, 
cared  so  little  about  what  they  felt  and  wanted  so  much 
to  know  what  they  did,  that  Huncote  stimulated  him  to 


8       THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

enquiry.  Gorsley  had  often  wondered  about  Huncote, 
as  did  a  good  many  other  people  at  Oxford.  He  had 
always  thought  that  this  long,  lanky  person,  with  the 
straight  brows  and  the  close-set,  deep-grey  eyes,  was 
bound  to  do  something  queer.  But  what  ?  "  I  don't 
say  you  were  born  to  be  a  don,"  he  replied  in  injured 
tones;  "there  are  loads  of  other  things.  I  say,  let's 
have  coffee  in  the  smoking-room." 

The  passage  into  the  smoking-room  did  not  deflect 
Gorsley  from  his  quest.  As  soon  as  they  sat  down  he 
began  again. 

"But    what    are    you    going    to    do?"    he    asked. 
Thought  of  anything  ?  " 

"I  s'pose  I  have,"  said  Huncote  guardedly.  He 
threw  at  the  amiable  Piggy  a  look  almost  hostile.  It 
was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  disliked  people  laying 
rough  hands  upon  his  life.  He  was  aloof;  like  men 
whose  interior  life  is  vivid,  he  tended  to  protect  himself 
from  the  outside.  He  had  done  all  the  usual  things  at 
Oxford,  but  almost  as  if  they  were  part  of  the  curric- 
ulum. He  was  rather  an  old  young  man,  though  but 
twenty-three.  He  hated  being  hustled  like  this.  But 
Gorsley  did  not  notice,  and  blissfully  continued  to  roll 
over  Huncote's  protesting  little  phrases. 

One's  got  to  settle  what  one's  going  to  do,  you  know 
It  doesn't  do  to  stroll  about  London  as  if  it  was  the 
lign.     One  s  got  to  do  something.     Didn't  realise  it 
myself  a  year  or  two  ago,"  he  added  charitably. 
•(  ^h'  y?s  3™  did>"  said  Huncote,  rather  vicious. 

Only  in  a  sort  of  way.  Of  course  I  knew  I  had  to 
make  a  living  and  all  that  —  but  that's  not  the  question ; 
even  a  man  who  hasn't  got  to  make  a  living  — well, 
hang  it  all,  it's  pretty  dull  if  you  don't  do  anything.  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  be  a  parson  one  time  ?  " 

I  did  think  about  it,"  said  Huncote,  "  but  it  didn't 
last  long.  It  isn't  comfortable  in  the  Church  when  you 
don  t  believe  in  anything." 


"OUT  OF  THE  EVERYWHERE"     9 

"It  can  be  done,"  said  Gorsley.  "Why,  think  of 
all  the  —  of  all  those  French  ecclesiastics  in  the  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  century;  they  didn't  swallow  it, 
did  they?" 

"  No,"  said  Huncote,  "  I  suppose  they  didn't.  But 
then,  in  the  seventeenth  century  it  was  not  exactly  re- 
ligion, was  it?  It  was  politics  rather." 

"  Politics,"  said  Gorsley,  his  eyes  more  visible  this 
time  than  they  had  been  the  last  hour.  "  What  about 
Parliament?  Ever  thought  of  standing  for  Parlia- 
ment ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Huncote  reluctantly,  "  I  do  think  of  it 
now  and  then." 

"  Tell  you  what,"  said  Gorsley,  "  if  you're  really 
thinking  of  it,  you  go  in  with  the  Tories.  The  Liberals 
have  got  all  the  young  men,  and  you  know  the  Tory  push 
at  the  Union  —  well,  talk  of  purulent  toads !  They  are 
It.  A  brainy  man  like  you'll  win  hands  down.  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer  at  forty-five.  It's  a  sure  thing." 

Huncote  began  to  laugh.  "  Piggy,"  he  said,  "  I'd 
tell  you  again  you're  a  swine,  only  you  don't  mind. 
Don't  you  know  I'm  a  Liberal  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Gorsley.  "  Political 
opinions  are  fluid;  and  some  of  us  don't  attach  much 
importance  to  them,  we  officials  for  instance,"  he  added, 
with  a  wink. 

Huncote  laughed  again.  It  was  no  use, —  one  could 
not  be  angry  with  Piggy  even  if  he  were  a  nuisance,  al- 
ways digging  at  you  to  know  what  you  were  doing,  and 
looking  at  the  photographs  of  your  female  friends  in 
your  rooms,  and  reading  the  cards  stuck  in  your  mirror. 
Oh,  at  it  again. 

"  A  man  who  can  wait,"  he  said,  "  can  still  make  a 
career  at  the  Bar.  He  can  mix  it  in  with  politics  and 
that's  quite  a  pie."  His  tone  grew  pitying.  "  You 
might  try  the  Home  Civil.  Though  it'd  have  been  bet- 
ter to  start  from  Cambridge.  Only  one  can't  go  to 


10     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Cambridge."  He  laughed.  "  You  know :  Loving  the 
earth,  God  made  heaven;  generous,  he  made  Oxford; 
resentful,  he  made  hell;  then  he  made  Cambridge." 

Huncote  did  not  laugh,  and  Gorsley  for  a  moment 
gazed  at  him  reflectively,  felt  rather  sorry  for  him.  He 
was  the  sort  of  young  man  who,  because  he  was  always 
doing  something  himself,  thought  that  everybody  else 
ought  always  to  be  doing  something ;  in  the  course  of  an 
excellent  education  he  had  had  to  dabble  with  philoso- 
phy, and  he  would  have  understood  what  you  meant  if 
you  told  him  that  nothing  was  something,  only  he  could 
not  apply  that  to  life.  Gorsley's  mind  was  full  of  words 
beginning  with  capitals:  Work,  Career,  Success;  and 
there  were  two  words  which  his  mind  printed  in  capitals 
drawn  from  the  largest  font:  GETTING  OK  He 
was  very  irritated  by  Roger  Huncote  who  seemed  so  ob- 
stinately set  on  not  doing  this  undefined  but  essential 
something,  who  was  just  religious  enough  to  be  annoy- 
ing, though  not  religious  enough  to  run  for  bishop ;  he 
"  didn't  mind  "  the  Bar,  and  at  the  same  time  had  po- 
litical opinions  rigid  enough  to  unfit  him  for  politics. 
Also  he  suspected  that  Roger  Huncote  was  not  im- 
pressed by  the  Indian  Civil.  For  a  moment  he  grew 
acid. 

"  Lord !  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  become  of  you. 
It  wasn't  for  nothing  they  called  you  ( Cardinal 
Quixote.' " 

"  I  don't  know  why  they  called  me  that,"  said  Hun- 
cote. "  There's  something  mystic  and  militant  and  ro- 
mantic about  it,  and  when  I  reflect  that  I'm  an  amiable 
agnostic  whose  militancy  consists  in  lying  in  bed  and 
whose  impulse  towards  romance  has  not  manifested  it- 
self even  at  Buol's,  I  can't  understand  it.  Give  me  up, 
Piggy;  it's  no  good,  you'll  never  make  a  man  of 
me." 

Gorsley  flung  him  a  rather  disconsolate  glance. 

"  I  don't  know,  Huncote,  you're  a  queer  fish !  " 


"OUT  OF  THE  EVERYWHERE"     11 

II 

IT  was  not  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  Roger  Huncote 
had  been  called  a  queer  fish.  There  was  a  queer  fishi- 
ness  about  him  in  the  nursery  where  he  developed  so 
early  a  taste  for  knocking  out  melodies  on  a  tumbler 
that  Mrs.  Huncote  specially  looked  up  the  early  lives  of 
great  musicians  and  related  her  son  with  Mozart.  Al- 
ready then  she  reflected  that  he  was  not  the  ordinary 
kind  of  boy.  Yet  he  seemed  to  grow  up  very  much  the 
ordinary  kind  of  boy.  He  did  all  the  things  that  ordi- 
nary boys  do,  from  hating  rice-pudding  to  breaking 
windows,  but  there  always  seemed  to  lurk  at  the  back 
of  these  purely  human  impulses  a  detachment,  as  if  he 
were  thinking  of  something  else.  At  Winchester  he 
played  cricket,  looking,  while  he  fielded,  as  if  he  were 
composing  an  elegy ;  yet  when  he  had  to  try  his  hand  at 
Greek  hexameters,  Roger  Huncote  treated  the  exercise 
as  if  with  every  line  the  longing  grew  in  him  to  return 
to  a  well-beloved  novelette,  "  Gorgando  the  Sanguinary," 
which,  with  various  more  respectable  works  of  Marryat, 
he  kept  in  his  desk.  He  had  a  quality  of  independence 
less  in  the  things  he  did,  for  he  seldom  took  the  lead  in 
anything,  than  in  the  things  he  did  not.  He  was  not  a 
boy  to  be  swayed  by  fashions ;  while  even  rigid  Elspeth, 
his  elder  sister,  had  to  wear  smallish  hats  when  hats 
were  small,  Huncote  wore  brown  boots  to  the  shade  of 
which  his  form  objected :  almost  a  vocation  for  Christian 
martyrdom.  It  was  Huncote  who,  in  his  first  term, 
found  out  that  none  but  freshers  gave  cabmen  two  shill- 
ings for  the  drive  from  the  station,  and  ventured  to  offer 
them  one-and-six.  And  yet  all  this  did  not  resolve  itself 
in  a  distinct  personality. 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND 


HUNCOTE  paused  for  a  moment  just  outside  Paddington 
Station.  In  that  minute  the  station  and  Praed  Street 
did  not  seem  ugly  to  him.  Indeed  it  is  a  question 
whether  to  any  man  who  has  lived  in  Oxford,  Padding- 
ton  and  Praed  Street  can  ever  lose  all  their  romance, 
for  they  are  the  hyphen  between  the  contemplative  life 
and  the  active;  they  are  the  places  where  are  breathed 
sighs  of  relief  because  Oxford  is  left  behind,  or  of  de- 
light because  London  is  shaken  off.  They  are  as  the 
bed  in  Richepin's  poem,  where  all  things  begin,  where 
all  things  end.  That  morning  for  Huncote  things  were 
again  beginning;  he  had  almost  fled  Oxford  when  term 
ended,  as  if  the  aftermath  of  that  evening,  when  Swin- 
burne's verse  flowed  like  honey  through  the  bull  of 
Bashan's  brazen  trump,  had  left  in  him  a  sweet  and 
tainted  memory.  Through  Easter  term,  Oxford  had 
snuggled  by  him,  intolerable,  like  a  sort  of  Ninon  de 
1'Enclos  still  desirable  at  eighty  —  but  eighty  1  Those 
sleepy  waters  and  gardens  were  growing,  not  orchids, 
but  Shakespeare  flowers.  Mustiness  mixed  with  rowdi- 
ness:  it  had  all  felt  either  too  mellow  or  too  crude. 
He  had  growing  pains,  and  the  most  horrible  kind  of 
growing  pains,  for  here  he  was  afflicted  with  them  in- 
side an  iron  cage. 

And  so  he  had  not,  as  he  vaguely  felt  he  ought,  loaded 
his  luggage  upon  a  taxi  and  driven  across  to  Euston 
where  he  would  dutifully  take  the  train  for  St.  Olaves 
to  stay  at  his  mother's  house.  As  he  stood  blinking  in 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE'*  13 

the  spun-gold  light  of  the  London  sun,  observing  as  old 
friends  a  tobacconist  opposite  who,  he  remembered, 
always  hung  his  shop  with  dark  blue  on  boat-race  day, 
and  a  flower  shop  next  to  Praed  Street  Station,  where 
a  girl  was  rather  pretty,  he  was  conscious  of  unrest: 
for  Huncote  owned  a  conscience,  and  the  world  had  not 
yet  trained  it  into  docility.  But  his  mother  and  Flora 
had  come  up  for  Eights,  and  he  had  grown  so  appall- 
ingly tired  of  the  faded  prettiness  of  the  one  and  the 
over-bright  prettiness  of  the  other,  so  tired  of  Mrs. 
Huncote  and  of  her  offensive  remarks  about  boys.  It 
made  him  shrink  when  she  said  "  boys  ",  because  the 
freshmen  might  hear  her.  And  he  was  so  tired  of  ex- 
plaining that  a  dean  was  not  necessarily  an  ecclesiastic, 
of  meeting  Flora's  curiosities  as  to  what  a  blood  or  a 
binge  was.  Flora  had  flirted,  and  her  mother  had 
worn  a  nice  smile  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  They 
were  charming  in  their  way,  only  they  were  not  pas- 
sionate monks,  and  Oxford  had  no  use  for  them ;  Hun- 
cote was  not  sure  that  the  presence  of  any  woman  in 
Oxford  was  not  sacrilegious.  So  he  drew  back  from 
the  idea  of  vacuous  days  up  there ;  even  the  tonic  of  his 
elder  sister  Elspeth's  hardness  would  not  make  the 
thing  tolerable  just  then.  Later  on,  in  August,  it 
would  be  all  right,  when  the  Oxford  paint,  so  fresh  on 
him  now,  had  dried  a  little. 

"  No,"  he  thought  aloud,  "  I'll  stay." 

And  as  he  thought,  having  conceded  so  much  to 
Dionysus,  he  felt  relieved,  like  a  murderer  who  looks 
upon  his  victim  on  the  ground  and  thinks,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief :  "  Well,  anyhow,  that's  over." 

It  had  been  a  short  struggle,  for  indeed,  as  he  quickly 
stepped  through  Spring  Street,  the  day  was  Dionysian. 
There  was  languor  and  exuberance  in  the  streets,  al- 
ready warm  with  early  sun.  London  was  like  a  very 
young  courtesan  who  still  enjoys  her  trade,  whose  tree 
jewellery  is  still  fresh  and  roses  but  in  bud.  From 


14    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

the  pavement  rose  dust  that  the  lazy  warm  breeze  car- 
ried a  very  little  way  up  and  scented  with  those  ex- 
quisite London  smells  of  horses,  petrol,  tanyard  and 
brewery,  beautiful,  working  smells,  smells  of  art,  not 
obvious  smells  of  nature.  As  he  drew  nearer  to  the 
Park,  the  motorcars  that  passed  him,  perhaps  because 
the  air  was  light,  seemed  faster,  more  whizzing  than 
usual,  their  highly  polished  fittings  more  like  light- 
nings. Yet,  strangely  enough,  as  if  all  things  that  day 
were  exaggerated,  just  as  the  motorcars  seemed  swifter, 
the  brewer's  van,  with  the  two  big  Flemish  horses  still 
begauded  with  the  rosettes  they  had  just  earned  at 
Carthorse  Parade,  seemed  slower.  The  driver  upon  his 
high  seat  sat  back,  the  reins  lay  in  his  languid  large 
Lands.  And  it  passed  with  an  echoing,  crooning 
rumble.  As  he  went,  Huncote  was  violently  conscious 
of  strain  and  slackness  in  the  early  London  summer. 
Two  women  came  towards  him,  women  in  tweeds,  one 
of  them  summed  up  in  a  pince-nez ;  women  with  brick- 
red  in  their  cheeks  and  sand  in  their  hair,  and  in  their 
ill-gloved  hands  and  clumsy  feet  the  disgrace  of  woman- 
hood. As  he  passed  them  he  thrilled  with  hatred,  as  if 
he  could  not  bear  that  anything  should  be  ugly  in  the 
midst  of  pageantry.  He  was  young,  he  was  unjust,  for 
he  had  not  related  his  anger  with  that  second  of  joy  as 
he  passed  a  girl  who  went  with  quick  steps  about  her 
business,  upon  whose  red  hair,  high-piled,  the  sun  laid 
a  sheen  that  made  of  it  a  copper  helmet.  As  he  passed 
he  flung  her  a  sidelong  look,  and  never  before  had  he 
seen  such  humid  blue  eyes,  and  lips  red  and  rolled  back. 
Her  beauty  hurt  him  as  the  ugliness  had  hurt  him.  He 
was  so  young  as  to  be  happy  in  ignorance,  and  not  to 
understand  just  then  that  both  were  signs  of  London's 
fever  which  would  dwindle  and  then  fall  as  the  golden 
days  turned  into  grey,  then  rise  again  when  from  the 
grey  came  gold,  as  it  was  in  the  beginning  and  would 
ever  be. 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  15 

As  he  went  into  Kensington  Gardens  he  could  not  be 
philosophic ;  he  could  only  feel.  No  past  and  no  future 
here,  but  a  present  almost  intolerable  because  too  en- 
folding. London  in  its  sober,  secret  riot.  It  seemed  a 
very  long  walk  across  the  Gardens  to  Knightsbridge 
where  are  red  sentries,  and  through  the  prance  of  Picca- 
dilly to  the  restaurant  where  he  had  a  man  to  meet. 
He  swore  at  himself  because  he  had  a  man  to  meet,  and 
for  a  moment  saw  Oxford  as  it  was,  because  he,  like 
other  undergraduates,  always  had  a  man  to  meet  (and 
seldom  a  woman),  a  tea  party  to  go  to,  a  music  hall  to 
visit,  and  so  on:  Oxford  on  the  loose  or  rather  Oxford 
on  the  lead.  It  was  hateful  because  his  eyes  were  still 
filled  with  the  memory  of  the  amber  and  golden  beads 
of  the  calceolaria,  and  the  spears  of  the  snapdragon 
laden  with  garnet  bells.  He  would  have  liked  not  to 
roll  in  the  spangled  meadows,  but  rather  to  hang  for  a 
very  long  time  over  the  parapet  of  the  Serpentine  bridge 
and  to  look  at  the  cunning  woods  that  are  like  a  Hamp- 
shire hanger  towards  the  pale-blue  East  that  smiles  and 
broods  above  Park  Lane.  But  he  had  a  conscience,  and 
though  it  had  not  been  so  difficult  to  break  with  an 
obligation,  a  visit  to  St.  Olaves,  it  was  impossible  to 
break  with  a  promise ;  he  had  to  meet  Ditton  at  lunch. 

Ditton  too  had  that  morning  felt  the  influence  of 
Dionysus,  but  the  god  had  not  made  him  dreamy. 
Rather  had  he  poured  into  his  veins  an  urgency  to  do 
something,  anything,  a  mere  restlessness,  but  still  it 
was  an  energy  and  much  greater  than  Huncote's  in- 
toxicated languor,  an  energy  which  enabled  him  to  force 
out  of  his  friend  another  promise:  that  he  would  dine 
with  him  that  night  and  go  to  a  music  hall.  Huncote 
promised  because  he  could  think  of  no  way  of  escape. 
He  made  a  mental  reservation,  told  himself  that  he 
would  not  go  but  would  send  a  telegram  at  the  last 
minute.  Yet  at  the  same  time  he  knew  that  he  would 
go  because  even  if  Ditton  did  talk  of  Gabs,  still  here 


16     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

they  were,  and  it  was  London,  and  soon  it  would  be 
night.  At  what  altar  better  sacrifice  than  at  that  of 
the  European  promenade  ? 


II 

Huncote  knew  without  having  phrased  it  that  Ditton 
came  to  town  to  paint  it  red,  as  Ditton  put  it.  He  had 
liked  the  fellow  ever  since  he  had  carefully  made  him- 
self up  to  look  like  the  warden  of  St.  Saviour's,  whom 
he  closely  resembled,  and  boldly  gone  into  the  big 
draper's  in  the  Corn  and  ordered  a  lady's  chemise,  to- 
gether with  curling  pins  and  other  accessories,  to  be 
sent  to  his  rooms  before  seven  o'clock.  There  was  not 
an  undergraduate  who  did  not  know  the  story,  but  a 
coalition  of  all  the  authorities  in  Oxford  failed  to  dis- 
cover the  culprit.  Ditton  said  he  did  not  believe  the 
authorities  had  tried  very  hard,  for  he  suspected  that 
after  a  moment  of  annoyance  the  warden  began  to  enjoy 
the  vague  reputation  of  dreadful  doggishness  which  he 
acquired  in  the  whole  town.  There  was  in  Ditton's  eye 
a  sort  of  permanent  wink  and  so,  while  he  waited  in 
the  lobby  of  the  Trocadero,  Huncote  felt  that  he  might 
dispel  listlessness.  But  as  almost  at  once  the  swing- 
doors  opened,  he  drew  back  and  became  a  little  stiff. 
Ditton  had  not  played  fair  with  him.  Really  he  should 
not  have  done  it  without  asking  him,  for  here  he  was 
with  Moss  and  Wray,  two  of  the  worst,  two  of  the  very 
worst,  who  belonged  to  a  set  at  Gabs  that  he  never  had 
anything  to  do  with.  Huncote  came  forward  and 
shook  hands  rather  coldly.  But  it  was  no  use  being 
cold;  evidently  Wray  and  Moss,  who  thought  him  in- 
tolerably superior,  were  willing  to  make  allowances  for 
him.  Also,  as  they  went  down  the  stairs,  .Huncote 
watched  the  movement  of  Wray's  blazing  red  head  and 
decided  that  he  was  already  drunk. 

He  was  annoyed.     It  was  all  very  well  Ditton  mak- 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  17 

ing  up  a  party,  but  everybody  knew  that  Wray  was 
always  a  bit  drunk.  As  they  shed  their  coats  he 
watched  angrily  the  behaviour  of  the  man  who  was 
bound  to  disgrace  them  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 
The  object  of  his  anger  smiled  at  him  with  perfect  satis- 
faction, for  Lord  Alastair  Fitzmaurice  Wray  was 
seldom  in  the  mood  to  dislike  anybody  much;  in  his 
present  condition  he  was  beyond  all  hatreds.  And  it 
was  hard  to  dislike  him,  for  he  was  extraordinarily 
handsome,  an  inch  or  so  over  six  feet  in  height,  and  one 
could  not  quarrel  with  the  beaming  stupidity  which 
radiated  from  his  innocent  blue  eyes,  from  the  mouth 
which  had  at  the  age  of  four  caused  him  to  be  painted 
as  a  cupid. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,"  he  remarked  vaguely  to  Huncote. 
Then,  as  they  passed  in :  "  Feller  like  you  gives  tone 
to  a  party,  that's  what  I  say."  He  grew  more  intent: 
"  What  I  say  is  a  feller  like  you  gives  tone  to  a  party ; 
see  what  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Huncote  un- 
easily, trying  to  humour  him. 

Ditton  was  ordering  the  dinner  in  collaboration  with 
Moss,  who  was  a  judge  of  wines,  so  Lord  Alastair  per- 
sisted. 

"  What  you  want  in  a  party  is  tone,"  he  said,  "1  — 
1  —  liter  tone.  A  man  like  you  gives  tone  to  a  party, 
see  what  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Huncote,  rather 
frigid. 

"  Awfully  clever  of  you,"  remarked  Lord  Alastair, 
"  lots  of  people  don't  know  what  I  mean  when  I'm 
blind.  At  least  I'm  not  blind,  quite  all  right,  ain't  I, 
Mossy  ? " 

The  little  dark  Jew  flung  him  a  humorous  glance  of 
contempt. 

"  You're  drunk  as  a  lord,"  he  said,  "  and  most  suit- 
able. No?  Button,  don't  have  Eudesheimer  to  start  on. 


18     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Let  me  look  at  the  list.  Soda  water  for  Alastair  and 
nothing  else." 

The  young  man  had  not  heard  his  sentence  to  sobri- 
ety, for  he  was  convulsed  with  merriment  over  Moss's 
joke. 

"  Drunk  as  a  lord !  Ever  heard  anything  so 
funny  ? "  He  violently  smacked  Huncote's  thigh. 
"  Ever  heard  anything  so  funny  ?  "  Then,  with  sud- 
den seriousness,  leaning  over  and  seizing  Moss  by  the 
sleeve,  he  remarked :  "  Mossy,  you're  damn  clever !  " 

Moss  looked  at  him  with  that  affectionate,  half-con- 
temptuous air.  This  big,  handsome  fool  of  an  English 
aristocrat  was  the  only  creature  that  Moss  had  ever 
loved.  To  him  Wray  was  like  a  very  large  puppy  who 
could  understand  a  certain  amount  of  what  one  meant, 
who  played  fine,  rough  games  with  one,  like  tugging  at 
a  piece  of  rope,  games  suited  to  his  strength  and  in- 
telligence. Half  the  men  who  knew  Moss  summed  him 
up  as  a  dirty  little  black  beast  with  the  foulest  mouth 
and  mind  in  Oxford ;  he  was  generally  on  the  make  and 
opened  a  banking  account  when  at  school;  they  re- 
spected him  because  of  his  knowledge  of  the  world,  that 
is  to  say  of  the  rotten  end  of  it,  but  they  hated  him  for 
the  same  reason.  And  they  made  no  allowances  for 
that  side  of  him  so  strong,  as  it  is  in  many  of  his  peo- 
ple, his  passion  for  the  beautiful.  They  knew  that  in 
his  rooms  «was  a  large  collection  of  Benvenuto  Cellini 
gold-work  and  of  Renaissance  enamels.  Some  of  the 
men  who  happened  to  be  musical  forgave  him  a  good 
deal  because  now  and  then  they  slunk  into  his  rooms  in 
the  evening,  where  he  took  no  notice  of  them  and 
played  Bach  fugues  on  the  piano  with  amazing  dex- 
terity. Nobody  understood  that  it  was  Wray's  beauty, 
his  immense,  fine-moulded  limbs,  and  that  sharp-- 
angled, thick  crop  of  red  hair  that  filled  the  aesthetic 
Jew's  soul  with  endless  delights. 

The  dinner  had  progressed  beyond  the  soup  before 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  19 

the  conversation  became  at  all  active,  for  they  were 
young,  all  of  them,  and  therefore  hungry  at  half-past 
seven.  But  when  it  began,  inevitably  enough  it  was  of 
Oxford,  as  if  the  undergraduates  carried  away  with 
them  an  environment  which  they  must  get  rid  of  before 
they  plunged  into  London. 

Moss  criticised  the  "  bumper  "  he  had  attended.  It 
had  not  been,  he  thought,  well  done ;  the  wines  had  been 
ill-selected  and  ill-ordered  by  a  host  who  came  from  a 
class  that  had  neither  the  traditions  of  country  gentle- 
men nor  the  instincts  of  wine-merchants.  "  And  you'd 
never  believe  it,"  he  added,  looking  about  him  for  sym- 
pathy, "  they  had  roast  fowl  —  actually  roast  fowl !  " 
He  giggled.  "  I  thought  that  sort  of  people  worshipped 
saddle  of  mutton." 

Huncote  and  Ditton  laughed,  feeling  it  their  duty, 
for  they  were  not  quite  sure  that  there  was  anything 
wrong  with  saddle  of  mutton,  so  usual  in  their  own 
homes.  Moss's  eyes  twinkled:  he  was  clever  enough 
to  know  the  cause  of  their  forced  laughter,  and  he  had 
a  keen  ironic  pleasure  in  feeling  superior  to  the  people 
who  lived  beyond  that  invisible  pale  where  his  own  folk 
were  prisoned.  And  so  there  was  a  little  cleavage  of 
silence  until  Ditton  began  to  tell  them  the  story  of  the 
latest  rag.  As  usual  Areley  had  been  the  victim. 

"  That  chap,  Areley,"  said  Ditton,  "  he's  asking  for 
it.  What  the  freshers  will  do  without  him  when  he 
goes  down,  Lord  only  knows." 

"  Who's  Areley  ?  "  asked  Huncote. 

"  Oh,"  said  Ditton,  "  he's  the  —  he  digs  in  St.  Olds ; 
of  course  you  might  know  him  but,  being  at  the  House, 
a  man  gets  lost  in  that  great  barn  of  a  place.  Don't 
you  remember  ?  He's  the  man  we  put  the  placard  on." 

A  splutter  of  merriment  went  up  from  the  other  two, 
and  suddenly  Huncote  laughed  too  as  he  remembered 
Areley,  the  tall,  absent-minded,  goggle-eyed  person  who 
had  gone  the  whole  length  of  the  High  with  a  large 


placard  pinned  on  his  gown,  marked :     "  Strike  but 
hear!" 

"  I  think  it's  rather  a  shame,"  said  Huncote,  at  last. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Moss,  "  we've  all  got  our 
function  in  the  world ;  Areley's  the  comic  relief.  Isn't 
that  true,  Ditton  ?  " 

"  Eather." 

"  But  I  haven't  told  you  what  we  did  to  him  the 
other  day.  He  was  having  one  of  his  highly  superior 
little  parties,  just  a  select  few,  you  know,  the  best  peo- 
ple—  all  that;  third  year  men  only.  They  had  met 
together  for  a  quiet  dinner  in  a  private  room  at  the 
Mitre.  Georgian  silver,  caviare;  lemonade,  or  cham- 
pagne to  suit  one's  principles.  The  whole  thing  to  be 
followed  by  a  really  high-toned  debate  on  '  The  Young 
Novelists  of  England  and  What  They  Will  Do  For 
Our  Country.'  " 

"Well,  what's  the  rag?"  asked  Huncote. 

"  This  chap,  Areley,"  Ditton  explained,  "  he  does  the 
thing  properly,  you  know.  Somebody  found  out 
through  his  landlady's  daughter  where  he  kept  his  in- 
vitation cardsk  You  mayn't  believe  it,  but  he's  got 
engraved  cards  which  he  sends  out  for  his  extra  spe- 
cials :  '  Mr.  Cuthbert  St.  John  Areley  requests  the 
pleasure  of  Mr.  Blank's  company  at  Dinner  on  the  — 
All  that  sort  of  thing.  Well,  whether  the  girl  was 
bribed  or  whether  he  left  the  locker  open,  I  can't  tell 
you,  but  when  Areley  turned  up  at  the  Mitre  at  ten  to 
seven  to  see  that  everything  was  all  right,  the  waiter 
said  to  him :  '  Six  gentlemen  have  arrived,  sir.' ' 

Moss  threw  himself  back  and  gurgled  delightedly. 
"  Oh,  I  see,"  he  cried,  rather  tactlessly  anticipating 
Ditton's  point. 

Wray  flung  him  a  look  of  admiration;  never  had  he 
met  anything  so  fly  as  Moss. 

"  So,"  Ditton  pursued,  "  dear  old  Areley  went  up 
feeling  very  flustered  and  all  that,  because  he  had  not 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  21 

been  there  to  receive  his  guests,  and  wondered  whether 
his  watch  was  slow.  But  when  he  got  in — "  Dit- 
ton  paused  impressively  — "  he  found  Melton  in  his 
flannels,  and  Cotton,  the  labour  man,  with  a  deerstalker 
on  his  head  and  a  bull-dog  pipe  in  his  mouth.  And 
there  was  Rayne,  who's  on  the  edge  of  the  Church ;  he 
was  looking  at  Cotton,  who's  an  atheist,  as  if  he  were  a 
centipede." 

"Anybody  else?"  asked  Huncote.  "Though  that 
sounds  promising." 

"  There  were  three  more,"  said  Ditton,  with  immense 
seriousness.  "  There  was  Tid  who'd  been,  well,  let  us 
say  got  ready  by  a  few  of  us,  for  he  was  so  blind  that 
he'd  slipped  off  his  chair  and  was  holding  it  affection- 
ately by  the  leg,  while  Warcop,  the  chap  who  came  up 
from  the  Polytechnic  but  happened  to  have  lived  mostly 
in  India,  was  trying  his  best  not  to  be  sick  as  he  looked 
at  Rajah  Abdur  Singh  who  that  night  wore  all,  all,  all 
his  jewellery." 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  And  what  did  poor  old  Areley  do  ?  "  asked  Huncote. 

"  Well,  what  could  he  do  ?  "  said  Ditton.  "  Those 
six  had  had  invitation  cards  saying  it  was  quite  in- 
formal and  no  answer  was  expected.  And  they'd  only 
had  them  two  hours  before  the  affair,  so  that  they 
couldn't  let  on,  and  they'd  been  told  to  come  at  a  quar- 
ter to  seven,  and  there  was  poor  old  Areley,  dancing 
round  like  a  dog  who's  drunk  ripolin  in  the  scullery 
thinking  it  was  milk,  wondering  what  to  do  with  the 
high-toned  push  coming  on  in  another  five  minutes !  I 
don't  know  how  he  shot  'em  out,  but  he  did.  Said 
something  about  the  dinner  being  off  and  bolted  down 
the  stairs,  told  the  waiter  to  put  back  the  dinner  and 
show  the  real  lot  into  another  room." 

"  And  did  that  settle  it  ?  "  asked  Moss.  "  Doubtful, 
if  I  know  some  of  the  men  you  mentioned." 

"  It  didn't  quite,"  replied  Ditton.     "  Five  of  them 


22     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

went  within  half  an  hour  or  so,  and  the  damage  wasn't 
eo  serious  except  that  something  got  burnt.  But  there 
wasn't  another  room,  and  they  couldn't  move  Tid;  he 
was  so  blind  that  not  even  the  waiters  could  move  him, 
because  he  hung  on  to  that  chair,  murmuring  something 
about  drowning  and  that  nobody  should  take  his  life 
belt ;  so  they  had  to  put  him  away  under  the  sofa  where, 
I'm  told,  the  noises  he  made  in  the  course  of  the  even- 
ing seriously  interfered  with  the  debate  as  to  whether 
Galsworthy  and  Bennett  were  written  out." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  ability  with  which  Moss  had  se- 
lected the  wines,  but  as  the  dinner  went  on  Huncote 
found  himself  less  awkward.  He  was  talking  more 
easily  now  to  everybody  in  general  rather  than  to  his 
neighbour,  and  he  began  to  rejoice  in  the  behaviour  of 
Wray  who,  eluding  the  vigilance  of  Moss,  poured  out 
over  half  a  tumbler  of  sherry  which  he  drank  neat,  re- 
marking to  Ditton  that  this  was  jolly  good  old  Madeira. 
But  a  little  later  Wray  grew  a  little  difficult  to  manage, 
for  he  began  a  long  anecdote  about  a  very  fat  recruit 
whom  his  father  had  had  in  his  regiment.  The  story 
was  rather  vague  but,  apparently,  the  recruit's  trousers 
had  not  been  properly  fitted,  with  the  result  that  in  his 
excitement  he  simultaneously  burst  every  button  on 
Southampton  wharf. 

"  Shut  up !  Alastair,"  said  Moss,  as  he  turned  to  Dit- 
ton and  asked  him  whether  he  had  taken  his  tip  to  back 
Mangold  Pheasant  for  the  City  and  Suburban. 

And  Huncote  tried  to  help  by  asking  Wray  the  same 
question.  But  the  young  man  had  reached  the  dogged 
stage  of  drink  and  from  time  to  time  burst  out  with  his 
story. 

"I  shouldn't  hedge  if  I  were  you,"  said  Moss. 
"  Either  Carlsbad  wins,  or  it's  anybody's  race.  You 
might  as  well  back  the  field,  for  all  you  know  about 
anything  else's  form." 

"  And  so  they  locked  him  up  in  the  waiting  room 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  23 

while  they  sent  up  to  the  depot  for  another  pair,  and 
when  they  came  back  with  one  the  ship  had  sailed  — " 

"  I  got  the  tip  from  Lulu  Malavine,"  said  Moss, 
"  and  she  got  it  straight  from  Lane,  the  trainer,  him- 
self." He  sniggered.  "  You  bet  Lane  told  her  the 
truth.  There  are  hours  and  there  are  moments  when 
Lulu  will  make  him  tell  her  anything." 

"  And  on  board  it  was  the  same  thing ;  the  new  pair 
was  the  same  size,  you  see,  and  they  didn't  happen  to 
carry  a  tailor.  So  the  governor  says  they  put  him  in  a 
kilt,  and  he  hadn't  been  half  an  hour  in  Cape  Town 
before  he  got  arrested  for  bringing  the  Queen's  uniform 
into—" 

Wray  had  now  fastened  upon  Ditton  in  particular; 
so  Moss  and  Huncote  were  thrown  together,  and  from 
the  charms  of  Lulu,  on  which  Moss  dilated  with  an  ex- 
pertness  that  Huncote  thought  quite  disgusting,  some- 
how passed  to  music. 

"  I'm  not  running  him  down  exactly,"  said  Moss, 
"  but  Chopin  always  makes  me  think  of  a  middle-aged 
Victorian  lady  who  was  pretty  once  upon  a  time  and 
remembers  it,  and  waves  a  little  handkerchief,  scented 
with  lavender,  upon  which,  at  proper  musical  intervals, 
she  drops  a  little  tear.  But  if  you  agree  with  me,  I'm 
surprised  you  won't  take  up  Bach." 

"  Maths,"  said  Huncote,  rather  superciliously. 

"  Well,  what  more  do  you  want  ?  "  said  Moss,  very 
serious.  "  Aren't  maths  beautiful  ?  Is  there  anything 
more  beautiful  than  a  sphere  ?  Think  of  the  differences 
between  geometrical  figures,  of  the  square, —  so  deter- 
mined, lumpy,  John  Bullish;  and  what  about  the 
trapeze, —  that  slithery  Machiavelli  of  geometry." 
His  dark  eyes  glittered  with  the  delight  that  anything 
purely  intellectual  always  gave  him.  "  Think  of  their 
movements,  too,"  he  said,  "  of  the  cycloid  that  goes  on 
and  on  for  ever,  always  travelling  back  and  always 
travelling  on."  He  blew.  "  Why,  to  think  of  the 


24    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

thing's  exciting!  The  cycloid  is  just  like  a  fugue,  al- 
ways rising  and  falling,  always  seeming  about  to  re- 
solve itself  and  never  doing  it  quite,  but  always  carry- 
ing you,  note  by  note,  nearer  to  some  wonderful 
satisfaction.  See  what  I  mean  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do,"  said  Huncote.  His  ears  auto- 
matically registered  Ditton's  "  steady-on,  old  chap  "  as 
Wray  bellowed  forth  the  possible  end  of  his  possibly 
endless  story;  the  recruit  had  now  been  put  into  the 
trousers  of  a  Boer  farmer  because  they  were  the  largest 
in  South  Africa!  But  Huncote  was  puzzled  by  the 
queer  little  Jew,  the  aptness  of  this  comparison  of  his 
and  the  much  more  singular  fact  that  together  with  a 
sharp  intellect  a  swooning  a3stheticism  could  be  found 
in  the  mean  and  mercenary  son  of  a  Hampstead  stock- 
broker. Odd,  too,  he  remembered  that  in  Moss's  rooms, 
in  addition  to  his  rare  enamels,  there  were  two  pictures 
of  puppies.  Well !  Huncote  had  been  there  once  and 
now,  as  he  stared  at  Moss  who  looked  at  him  with  a 
disgusting  smug  smile,  pleased  to  think  that  he  taught 
the  superior  Christian  something,  he  could  see  those 
two  pictures :  a  puppy  flying  furiously  at  its  own  reflec- 
tion in  a  mirror,  entitled :  "  If  you  see  a  good  thing,  go 
for  it."  And  the  other,  the  same  puppy,  galloping 
with  a  wasp  on  its  tail,  called :  "  If  you  are  on  a  good 
thing,  stick  to  it !  " 

Huncote  felt  that  there  were  in  Moss  things  that  he 
would  never  understand,  and  he  wondered  for  a  mo- 
ment whether  indeed  this  was  not  a  case  of  East  being 
East.  He  felt  more  charitably  inclined  to  Moss,  and 
as  he  sipped  his  port  he  thought  he  would  get  hold  of 
him  in  the  coming  week  and  see  whether  there  really 
was  a  race  difference.  He  could  not,  he  thought,  dis- 
cuss just  then  a  problem  which  Moss  doubtless  thought 
delicate. 

Hardly  had  they  passed  into  the  street  than  Huncote 
experienced  a  new  sensation  or  rather  an  increase  in 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  25 

the  pleasant  light  sensation  he  had  felt  towards  the  end 
of  dinner.  It  had  been  very  slight  at  the  Trocadero 
and  here,  in  Coventry  Street,  a  cool  little  wind  blew  from 
the  east;  it  felt  quite  sharp  in  comparison  with  that 
languid  air  full  of  scents  of  women,  food,  and  flowers. 
There  was  nothing  wrong,  but  Huncote  knew  that  he 
was  walking;  he  could  see  perfectly  straight,  but  he 
realised  that  he  was  seeing ;  somehow  the  whole  of  those 
functions  of  the  body  which  usually  are  unconscious 
had  suddenly  become  a  little  insistent.  He  heard  him- 
self laughing  once  and  thought  the  sound  silly.  It  was 
an  epitome  of  Huncote's  past  life  that  he  should  won- 
der what  was  the  matter  with  him.  He  felt  inclined 
to  tell  Moss,  who  was  explaining  in  a  high  and  assured 
voice  where  he  would  find  sentimentality  in  Wagner, 
that  he  thought  lobster  was  indigestible.  He  pulled 
himself  up  because  he  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  had 
eaten  lobster;  it  might  have  been  crayfish.  Anyhow, 
both  of  them  were  very  bad  foods  for  June.  At  tnat 
moment  Ditton,  who  had  been  walking  behind  affection- 
ately linked  with  Wray,  drew  abreast  of  them;  as  he 
so  did,  he  seemed  to  impel  Huncote  to  the  abominably 
familiar  step  of  taking  his  other  arm. 

"  Steady  on,  old  chap,"  he  murmured ;  "  it's  a  bit 
early  for  you  to  get  rosy." 

"  Kosy  ?  "  cried  Huncote,  rather  angry.  "  What  the 
devil—" 

He  stopped.  Two  women  near  a  lamp-post  opposite 
Appenrodt's  stared,  then  obviously  laughed  at  him. 
He  grew  very  silent:  had  he  had  too  much  to  drink? 
Absurd !  He  had  had  a  glass  of  sherry  and  two  glasses 
of  Rudesheimer,  or  was  it  three  ?  A  glass  of  port  too, 
he  remembered  that ;  and  a  liqueur  with  coffee. 

"  Damn  the  liqueur !     That  might  have  done  it." 

He  swore  several  times  to  himself,  then  blinked  vig- 
orously as  if  to  get  rid  of  two  invisible  feathers  that 
seemed  to  have  stuck  in  his  eyelashes.  Then,  rather 


26     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

dimly,  he  heard  Wray,  to  whom  Ditton  had  evidently 
confided  his  disgrace. 

"  Is  he  ?  Well,  that's  two  of  us  out  of  four.  Not 
half  bad  for  a  quarter  to  ten." 

Huncote  felt  disgusted  as  Ditton  sniggered  and  told 
Wray  he  would  have  to  put  him  to  bed  if  he  did  not 
know  nine  o'clock  when  he  heard  it  strike  at  St.  Mar- 
tin's church. 

But  at  that  moment,  when  there  was  passing  through 
Huncote's  mind  the  impulse  to  say  aloud  and  very  defi- 
nitely "  that  he  would  not  be  a  party  to  a  disgusting 
d —  d —  debauch,"  they  entered  the  blaze  of  the  Euro- 
pean's lamps,  and  the  energy  went  out  of  Huncote. 
He  was  like  a  moth  against  an  electric  bulb,  dazzled, 
half-distraught,  and  yet  delighted,  like  a  captured 
woman  that  is  afraid  and  charmed.  Everything  looked 
unreal  in  that  minute,  the  marble  steps  which  he  seri- 
ously counted,  the  two  commissionaires,  titanic  against 
the  pillars,  the  brilliant  lobby  dim  in  comparison  with 
the  arc  lamps  that  above  his  head  seemed  to  strike  at 
him.  The  European  was  a  monster  snake  fastening 
upon  its  quarry  with  immense  blazing  eyes  until  of  its 
own  free  will  it  entered  the  big  jaws  and  was  swallowed. 
Even  the  crowd  round  him  seemed  fantastic, —  the 
poorly  clad  girls  and  flashy  men,  here  and  there  a  gaudy 
creature  whose  hair  in  the  dry  light  was  as  a  flame,  the 
poor  crowd  below  the  half-crown  line,  with  open  mouths 
watching  the  Olympians  as  they  alighted  from  their 
cars  on  the  edge  of  the  red  carpet,  the  Olympian  men 
with  the  red  and  brown  faces  and  the  moulded  heads  of 
hair;  their  women,  just  big,  scented  rustles,  so  bold 
from  head  to  waist  and  so  furled  and  shrinking  about 
the  silk-clad  ankles.  .  .  . 

Then  here  they  were  inside,  all  four  in  a  row.  Moss 
was  at  the  end  by  Ditton ;  Wray  came  next,  and  Hun- 
cote, on  the  outside,  found  himself  preoccupied  by  a 
fluffy  person  so  pink  that  it  was  difficult  to  know  where 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  27 

she  began  and  her  blouse  stopped,  a  little  person  who 
languished  and  sprawled  and  every  now  and  then  licked 
her  lips  with  a  nicking  little  pink  tongue  as  if  she  were 
thinking  of  chocolate  or  kisses.  Huncote  pulled  himself 
together,  for  the  change  from  the  rather  sharp  air  of 
Leicester  Square  into  the  atmosphere  of  the  European, 
which  was  rather  like  that  of  the  restaurant,  had  done 
him  good;  his  eyes  were  all  right  again  now,  and  he 
could  see  quite  clearly  on  the  right  and  left  of  the  stage, 
the  enormous  figure,  4,  in  the  electric  light.  He  heaved 
a  sigh  and  laughed.  "  That's  better,"  he  thought,  "  it's 
four  right  enough ;  I  might  have  made  it  fourteen." 

He  watched  the  turn  with  interest.  The  Four  Tar- 
tinis,  two  men  and  two  women,  were  doing  rather  won- 
derful acrobatic  things :  tossing  each  other  into  the  air 
and,  it  seemed,  remaining  there  suspended  for  an  ap- 
preciable time.  Huncote  at  once  grew  excited  as  if  the 
drink  had  loosened  something  in  him,  and  self-restraint 
had  passed  away.  One  of  the  men  was  tossing  the  other 
one  into  the  air  and  catching  him  as  he  fell  as  if  he  were 
a  ball,  every  time  in  an  odder  attitude.  Huncote  found 
himself  quite  tense,  for  it  seemed  as  if  inevitably  he 
must  miss ;  then  he  drew  his  breath  sharply,  for  with  a 
great  effort  the  younger  man  had  been  thrown  high  into 
the  air,  and  with  incredible  swiftness  one  of  the  girls 
had  passed  to  the  juggler  a  great  cup,  into  which  with- 
out a  fraction  of  space  to  spare  he  received  the  falling 
man.  Huncote  found  himself  slightly  blinking,  ab- 
surdly wondering  the  while  how  it  was  that  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  could  enjoy  an  acrobat.  The  little 
pink  girl,  who  all  the  while  had  been  talking  to  her  own 
male  friend,  threw  him  a  sidelong  glance  and  giggled ; 
leaving  her  hands  between  those  of  her  escort,  she  calmly 
laid  her  shoulder  against  Huncote's.  He  looked  at  her 
sideways  and  then,  as  if  something  impersonal  urged 
him  on,  contentedly  thrust  his  own  shoulder  a  little 
more  forward.  He  felt  faintly  drowsy;  he  watched 


28    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

idly  upon  the  stage  four  pretty  American  girls  who 
sang  some  idiotic  chorus  about  doing  something  or  other 
at  a  pinch,  which  resulted  in  something  else  being  a 
cinch.  He  felt  happy  and  took  no  notice  of  Wray,  who 
now  talked  continuously  in  a  contented  undertone. 
The  air  was  heavy  with  tobacco,  and  there  were  scents 
all  about  him;  his  mind  seemed  at  rest,  and  his  body 
was  stimulated.  He  was  conscious  of  many  scents, — 
not  only  tobacco,  but  sweeter  scents  and  rank  ones  of 
sweat,  of  burning  oils,  of  hot  paint;  he  could  feel  the 
velvet  of  the  seat  in  front  on  his  sprawling  knees,  the 
soft  warmth  of  the  girl's  shoulder  against  his,  the  irri- 
tating tickle-tickle  about  his  forehead  when  a  feather 
from  her  hat  touched  him. 

He  lay  back.  He  felt  sultanian  in  this  large  cush- 
ioned seat,  with  his  dancers  performing  over  there  for 
him  to  the  sound  of  his  own  band.  He  grew  interested, 
he  particularised,  he  forgot  the  absurd  chorus  and,  one 
by  one,  began  to  criticise  his  dancers :  the  tall  girl  upon 
the  left,  with  the  fine,  well-set  head  and  the  tragic  dark 
eyes  made  so  deep  by  her  blued  eyelids,  and  the  other 
tall  one  with  the  wicked  red  hair,  and  the  third  who 
didn't  matter,  and  the  little  sprite  in  the  middle  who 
danced  so  quickly  that  every  one  of  her  pretty  curves 
seemed  as  she  moved  to  twinkle  in  the  light.  .  .  . 

A  comedian  sang: 

.     "  Adam  and  Eve  went  out  one  day 
To  look  at  the  shops  down  Eden  way, 
And  when  a  tailor's  shop  they  reached 
Said  Eve,  'It's  time  that  you  were  breeched.' 
Turn,  turn,  tee  didlee  um 
Didlee  din  and  didlee  um. 
Turn,  turn,  tee  didlee  um, 
Said  Adam,  '  I'm  a  Scotchman.' " 

In  his  laziness  he  was  conscious  of  Wray,  who  now 
held  him  by  the  elbow  and  from  time  to  time  gently 
shook  him  to  make  sure  he  had  his  attention.  With 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  29 

some  difficulty  he  pulled  himself  out  of  his  drugged 
state  and  managed  to  listen;  then  he  nearly  laughed 
aloud :  Wray  seemed  to  have  entered  the  third  stage  of 
drunkenness.  From  irrelevancy  he  had  passed  to 
women;  now  he  was  growing  theological. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  know  much  about  these  things, 
but  what  I  say's  this:  if  there  wasn't  anything  after 
we're  dead,  well,  what's  to  prevent  one  from  being  as 
big  a  rotter  as  one  likes  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  quite  so,"  said  Huncote  lazily.  He  had 
settled  the  ethical  question  long  ago.  But  Wray  had 
not,  and  he  went  on  at  the  ethics  mixed  up  with  the 
rules  of  good  form  which  serve  his  kind  as  a  faith  and 
assert  themselves  after  a  bad  evening  at  bridge,  a  crevice 
in  the  heart,  or  a  heavy  cold. 

"  Awful  cheek  of  me,"  went  on  Lord  Alastair,  "  talk- 
ing to  you  like  this ;  I'm  a  plain  man.  The  governor 
always  called  me  the  village  idiot;  still  there's  some- 
thing about  babes  and  sucking  somethings,  ain't  there? 
I've  forgotten  the  rest.  Better  ask  Mossy;  he  knows 
everything,  Mossy  does." 

Then  to  Huncote's  delight,  Wray  leant  across  Ditton 
and  bellowed :  "  Mossy !  I  say,  Mossy !  What's  that 
in  the  Bible  about  babes  and  sucking  somethings  —  you 
know,  something  that  gives  my  sort  a  chance." 

Half  a  dozen  people  in  the  row  in  front  turned,  and 
Huncote  found  himself  feebly  giggling  in  answer  to 
that  long  array  of  smiles.  Somewhere,  somebody  said : 
"  Disgraceful !  "  Huncote  found  himself  still  giggling 
as  if  he  could  not  stop,  and  affectionately  pushing  his 
shoulder  still  farther  on  to  meet  the  advances  of  the 
little  pink  girl  who  still  made  conscientious  efforts  to 
occupy  both  her  neighbours  together. 

Ditton  managed  to  suppress  Wray,  presumably  by 
giving  him  a  satisfactory  message  from  Moss,  for  at  in- 
tervals, as  other  turns  flickered  on  the  stage,  comedi- 
ennes in  bodices  cut  as  low  as  possible  and  skirts  as  high 


30     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

as  possible,  burnt  cork  and  red-nose  men,  and  people 
who  played  tunes  on  tumblers,  Huncote  could  hear  him 
murmur : 

"  That's  right.  Mossy  got  it  all  right.  Blowed  if 
I  know  how  he  finds  these  things  out."  And  from  time 
to  time  he  tugged  at  Huncote's  sleeve.  "  He's  a  bloody 
marvel,  don't  you  think  ?  Eh  ?  "  And,  although  Hun- 
cote  did  not  reply,  "  I  quite  agree  with  you." 

Huncote  was  memorising  from  the  programme  the 
names  of  proprietor,  managing  director,  assistant  ditto, 
and  manager.,  The  words  JEYES'  FLUID  grew  enormous 
in  his  brain. 

Then  the  interval,  some  music  and  a  shuffle  all  over 
the  theatre,  stumblings  over  feet  and  protests  against 
the  squashing  of  hats.  Huncote  found  himself  thread- 
ing his  way  out,  Moss  leading  the  way.  Now  that  he 
moved  he  felt  queer  again;  mechanically  he  registered 
that  Moss  was  telling  Ditton  what  he  thought  of  Ganne, 
the  strains  of  whom  were,  he  declared,  driving  him  into 
the  promenade. 

"  I'd  rather  be  as  blind  as  Alastair,"  he  said^  "  than 
listen  to  that  flatulent  muck  any  longer." 

The  promenade !  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
been  in  the  European  promenade.  A  few  times  before 
he  had,  with  his  mother  and  friends  of  her  choosing, 
gone  to  the  Alhambra  or  to  theatres,  but  instinctively, 
as  if  something  in  him  rebelled  and  were  afraid,  he  had 
never  before  been  entangled  in  those  undergraduate 
parties  that  came  to  London  to  get  gloriously  drunk,  to 
look  at  women  with  a  dare-devil  air  and  a  shy,  shrink- 
ing heart  And  here  he  was  pushed  into  it,  right  into 
the  middle  of  it  under  the  leadership  of  a  man  who 
seemed  to  have  worn  this  excitement  thin.  Huncote 
stared  about  him  as  he  were  from  Oxfordshire  and  not 
from  Oxford.  The  crowded  promenade  filled  him  with 
amazement,  this  heterogeneous  crowd  of  middle-aged 
men  in  hard  hats  and  short  coats,  with  pugnacious  short 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  31 

noses  and  a  North-country  air,  the  Londoners,  some  of 
whom  actually  wore  the  ties  that  one  saw  in  the  show 
cases.  He  identified  a  purple  poplin,  price  half  a 
crown  and  too  small  to  tie,  and  absurdly  thought  him- 
self very  clever.  Foreigners  too,  many  of  them  negroid 
Portuguese  or  South  American,  German  clerks,  unable 
to  move  their  necks  inside  their  collars,  and  gabbling 
little  Frenchmen  who  looked  at  the  women  with  an  air 
half-insolent,  half-lascivious.  But  it  was  the  women 
who  affected  him  most.  Their  slow,  circulating  stream 
round  the  promenade,  from  the  farthest  right  to  the 
farthest  left  and  then  back  again.  They  passed  by  him, 
nearly  all  furtively  smiling,  with  a  professional  ma- 
noeuvre of  the  eye.  For  a  moment  the  flow  stopped,  and 
one  of  them,  quite  dark,  with  her  hair  dressed  so  low 
over  her  forehead  that  it  almost  touched  her  eyebrows, 
was  wedged  against  him.  She  did  not  speak,  but 
moulded  herself  against  his  shoulder  and  arm  as  if  she 
were  fluid  and  obedient.  Her  lips  parted  as  she  smiled 
a  little.  Slowly  she  raised  her  left  eyelid,  expanded 
the  dark  eye,  rolling  it  inwards  and  then  a  little  up; 
then  the  eyelid  gradually  fell,  and  the  mouth  grew  de- 
mure. Huncote  felt  all  shaken,  but  rather  with  fear 
than  desire.  Instinctively  the  woman  knew  it.  She 
looked  boldly  into  his  eyes  and  then  with  a  pout  and 
the  insolent  air  of  one  who  cannot  waste  time,  a  shoulder 
movement  that  was  half  a  shrug,  she  passed  on  leaving 
him  wounded,  as  if  somebody  had  called  him :  "  You 
little  boy !  "  The  words  of  a  song,  "  Painting  the  Par- 
lour", passed  through  his  darkness: 

"  Mother   stuck   to   the   ceil-in<7, 
Father  stuck  to  the  floor. 
You  never  saw  such  a  happy  home 
In  all  your  life  before." 

It  had  not  lasted  more  than  two  or  three  seconds,  but 
he  felt  so  dulled  that  without  any  apparent  struggle 
with  his  reason  he  agreed  to  Ditton's  suggestion  and 


32     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

followed  his  friends  into  the  bar.  Indeed  he  found 
himself  quite  combative  as  he  forced  his  way  to  the  edge 
of  the  counter  and  with  difficulty  drew  the  attention  of 
the  flashy,  tow-headed,  and  peach-skinned  barmaid  who, 
with  such  wonderful  speed  and  an  indolence  almost 
graceful,  tugged  at  various  levers  and  poured  from 
flying  bottles.  He  drank  his  whisky  and  soda  right 
off;  more  boldly  he  looked  at  the  women  on  the  seats 
around  the  saloon,  many  of  them  alone,  some  with  one 
man,  some  laughing  high  in  the  midst  of  a  group.  He 
stared  so  aggressively  at  a  young  woman  in  scarlet  that 
she  got  up,  came  to  him,  and  said :  "  Hallo,  saucy, 
aren't  you  going  to  stand  me  a  drink  ?  " 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Huncote  found  himself 
replying,  "  ~Ratherf"  without  feeling  at  all  sickened  by 
his  own  poor  archness.  Things  grew  more  confused. 
He  drank  off  another  whisky  and  soda  with  the  girl  in 
scarlet;  he  was  conscious  of  some  disagreement  with 
Moss  who  had  said  something  about  "  toms  "  which  he 
did  not  understand.  Then  with  clearing  eyes  he  found 
that  the  girl  in  scarlet  had  linked  arms  with  a  neigh- 
bour, obviously  a  soldier  in  mufti,  and  that  most  of  the 
other  women  were  looking  at  him  and  ogling  him  as  if 
they  had  marked  him  out  as  their  special  quarry.  He 
was  critical  and  bold  now;  he  saw  that  the  large  crea- 
ture heaving  in  her  white  frock  like  an  enormous  Dutch 
doll  who  had  run  up-stairs  too  fast  must  be  over  the 
twenty-three  or  twenty-four  years  she  seemed  to  adver- 
tise. All  of  them,  he  could  appraise  at  their  true  value : 
the  slim  dark  snake  in  gold  and  amber,  and  the  donah 
with  the  big  white  ruffle  and  the  feather  hat,  and  that 
dangerous  little  mincing  fraud  with  the  poke-bonnet 
and  the  innocent  pink  roses  along  the  hem  of  her  white 
frock.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  so  very  much  later ;  first  he  was  struggling 
out  of  the  European  with  his  friends,  aware  of  one  thing 
only,  a  fierce  and  continuous  blowing  of  cab  whistles 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  33 

and  something  large  that  solemnly  said :  "  Pass  along 
there !  Pass  along,  gentlemen,  please,"  something  that 
shoved  and  got  in  the  way. 

Then  he  was  in  a  taxi,  along  with  Wray,  his  other 
companions  lost  in  the  crowd.  With  Wray's  arm 
round  his  neck,  Wray  rather  tearful  now  and,  strangest 
of  all,  two  girls  he  did  not  know,  whom  he  had  not 
even  seen  inside  the  European;  one  of  them  screamed 
with  laughter  at  something  unknown,  and  the  other,  just 
a  dark,  veiled  languor,  sat  silent  in  the  corner. 

And  then  it  all  went  on  as  if  he  were  tumbling  down 
a  soft  slope.  He  giggled  as  he  thought  of  old-fashioned 
games,  of  rolling  down  Primrose  Hill ;  it  must  have  felt 
a  little  like  that.  And  lights  and  "  s'more  "  food  some- 
where, and  "  s'more  "  to  drink.  Everything  seemed  to 
go  so  fast  somehow  and  other  things  to  happen  so  unex- 
pectedly. For  what  was  he  doing  now  ?  All  alone  this 
time  in  another  cab,  driving  to  he  did  not  know  where 
with  a  fair-haired  somebody  who  seemed  to  think  every- 
thing so  funny. 

The  somebody  said  one  thing  he  remembered: 
"  Shut  your  face,  dear ;  I  see  your  Christmas  dinner." 

It  was  several  days  later  before  he  could  remember 
some  of  the  rest,  and  then  it  was  not  much:  brilliant 
streets  giving  place  to  quieter  ones,  broad  roads  where 
they  were  still  selling  vegetables,  with  trams  passing  in 
the  middle,  roaring  and  coming  out  of  the  night  like 
fireflies.  And  a  tall,  dirty  dark  house  somewhere  in 
Clerkenwell;  a  long  wait  upon  the  step;  then  a  black 
passage  where  you  felt  your  way  and  found  the  walls 
sticky,  and  staggered  up  the  stairs  clutching  at  the  banis- 
ters, slippery  with  dirt.  And  then  a  sort  of  growing 
uneasy  gap  of  time,  an  inability  to  realise  what  hap- 
pened, whether  pleasing  or  abominable.  He  did  not 
know.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  thrown  out  of  a  dream 
into  life  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  find  him- 
self standing  in  the  middle  of  Theobald's  Road,  with 


34     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

his  waistcoat  pockets  turned  inside  out,  his  watch  gone, 
a  palate  like  a  nutmeg  grater,  and  a  head  into  the  left 
side  of  which  some  engineer  was  steadily  boring  a 
tunnel. 

For  a  minute  or  two  he  did  not  know  where  to  go. 
He  did  not  know  London  well.  If  only  he  could  find 
Paddington  or  Euston!  He  knit  his  brows  in  the 
effort  to  make  up  his  mind,  and  it  hurt  his  head,  as  if 
even  his  mind  ached.  The  night  was  cold,  and  above  a 
very  deep-blue  heaven,  studded  with  golden  stars,  looked 
down  upon  him  with  an  air  of  detachment ;  there  were 
no  trams  and  no  stalls  now,  and  the  shops  were  shut- 
tered; there  was  nobody  about  except  a  sleepy  bundle 
of  rags  and  dirt  on  the  steps  of  a  bank.  Huncote  looked 
vaguely  at  the  thing,  male  or  female,  who  could  say? 
Sex  seemed  to  have  fled  with  youth  and  beauty  from  the 
dim  thing  that  crouched  against  the  stone,  losing  less 
warmth  to  that  cold  stone  than  it  would  have  lost  to  the 
cold  wind.  He  gazed  half-fascinated  at  the  feet  lost 
in  enormous  boots  with  soles  gaping  away  from  the 
uppers;  one  foot  was  revealed  by  a  strip  of  dirty  pink 
flesh.  He  thought  of  asking  the  thing  his  way.  Then 
he  shuddered ;  he  could  not  draw  nearer  to  It  somehow. 
He  was  afraid  of  It,  as  one  is  afraid  of  a  body  that  has 
died  horribly  and  that  gapes  with  disease  or  blood,  as 
one  is  afraid  unreasonably  of  a  harmless  ghost.  But 
then  the  thing  was  dead  in  a  way,  except  that  it  still 
crawled  about.  ISTo,  he  could  not  ask  It  —  the  way  to 
the  Eitz,  for  argument's  sake.  He  laughed ;  It  seemed 
humorous  somehow.  But  abruptly  his  laughter 
stopped ;  he  felt  ashamed  as  if  the  creature  could  know 
that  he  was  taunting  it  with  wealth.  So  very  softly 
he  tiptoed  a  little  nearer,  conscious  all  the  time  of  that 
nibbling  ravage  in  his  head,  found  a  forgotten  shilling 
among  coppers  in  his  trousers  pocket,  and  very  care- 
fully dropped  the  com  near  the  folded  arm, 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  35 

And  then  silently  he  crept  away,  afraid  to  wake  It 
lest  It  might  be  too  hateful,  or  perhaps  because  he  felt, 
before  the  thing  that  life  had  left  stranded  high  above 
watermark,  that  silent  respect  which  one  feels  before 
the  dead.  It  had  followed  him  as  he  walked  towards 
the  north,  because  he  did  not  know  where  to  walk  to; 
he  felt  It  behind  him,  silent  at  first  like  a  shadow,  and 
then  more  insistent.  He  looked  around,  and  there  was 
nothing.  He  hurried  on  and  could  hear  behind  him 
the  clap-clap  of  the  loose  soles.  It  was  abominable,  this 
flight  from  the  hound  of  heaven.  He  passed  through 
big,  silent  squares  with  red  doors  and  green  doors,  all 
of  them  nicely  painted,  twinkling  in  the  gas  lamps  with 
every  knocker  and  bell-pull  nicely  polished,  smugly  in- 
sinuating that  one  could  not  live  there  under  two  pounds 
a  week  (or  more).  It  was  all  so  silent  except  for  the 
invisible  soles  and  their  clap-clap  which,  as  he  walked 
faster,  turned  into  a  rapid  shuffle.  His  nerves  were  in 
pieces,  and  he  had  to  reason  with  himself  to  prevent 
himself  from  running. 

Then  he  was  in  the  Euston  Road  and  across  it,  hap- 
pier, easier  now,  for  a  few  taxis  passed,  coming  out  of 
the  station,  and  there  was  more  light;  a  couple  of  po- 
licemen who  looked  eternal  and  immovable,  as  all  po- 
licemen after  a  while  come  to  look,  stood  together  by 
the  side  of  a  gas  lamp,  a  comforting  lump  of  law  and 
order.  Huncote  went  towards  them  full  of  the  im- 
mense sense  of  relief  of  the  well-to-do  who  always  go 
towards  the  police  instead  of  turning  away  from  them. 
They  would  know.  But  as  he  drew  near,  he  hesitated. 
He  listened;  there  was  nothing  behind  him  now,  as  if 
It  feared  light  and  policemen,  as  if  It  could  not  follow 
him  into  those  places  where  was  food  and  strength. 
And  at  once  Huncote  realised  that  he  missed  It  now, 
that  it  made  him  feel  base  to  have  deserted  It,  to  have 
walked  so  fast  that  It  could  not  catch  him  up.  A  lame 
dog  had  tried  to  get  over  a  stile:  he  had  not  helped  it. 


36     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

What  was  the  use  of  a  shilling  ?  Indeed  he  might  have 
struck  it  if  it  tried  to  struggle  over.  So  he  passed  by 
the  two  policemen  without  speaking  to  them.  They 
looked  inquisitorially  at  this  tall  young  man  with  the 
wry  tie  and  the  wild  air.  The  look  lasted  not  a  second, 
for  the  experts  knew  what  was  the  matter  with  him  and 
did  not  want  the  worthless  credit  of  interfering  with 
a  man  who  .  .  . 

One  policeman  put  it  to  the  other :  "  Booze ! 
What's  o'clock?" 

But  as  he  passed  them  and  for  a  moment  encountered 
the  cold  gaze  that  seems  to  pierce  all  coverings,  Hun- 
cote  had  shrunk  away;  he  had  wondered  what  they 
thought,  whether  they  would  speak  to  him,  whether 
somehow  he  had  not  done  something  wrong,  just  as  if 
the  thing  which  had  accompanied  him  and  its  shuffle- 
shuffle  had  entered  into  him  and  filled  him  with  its 
fears.  It  was  horrible,  this  sense  of  unity,  and  then 
for  a  moment  it  was  delightful.  That  night,  caught  in 
the  web  of  an  instinct  he  did  not  understand,  which 
had  never  touched  him  before,  he  had  in  a  drunken 
dream  attempted  in  the  arms  of  woman  to  achieve  union 
with  his  fellows.  He  had  failed,  and  here  he  was  with 
a  hot  mouth  and  tight  eyes.  Then  quite  suddenly, 
without  word  or  touch,  his  fellows  had  come  to  him  out 
of  that  verminous  heap  of  dirt,  clasped  him.  Oh,  pre- 
posterous prodigy!  As  Huncote  walked  on  through 
little  streets,  darker  and  darker,  passed  public  houses 
where  glimmered  but  one  light  at  the  back,  there  was 
something  radiant  in  his  soul  that  he  could  not  express 
yet.  His  head  hurt  less  now,  for  the  night  air  soothed 
it,  and  he  saw  details  better.  Dawn  was  breaking  and 
very  faintly;  here  and  there  he  could  hear  life  being 
born  again  with  a  few  sighs.  Indeed  it  was  dawn,  and 
over  the  flat  top  of  a  coal-yard  he  saw  it  coming;  the 
deep  blue  of  the  sky  had  already  greyed,  and  now  into 
the  grey  climbed  a  mauveness  that  with  every  moment 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  37 

enriched  itself  with  rose.  Everything  was  silent  still, 
so  silent  that  as  a  great  blush  tinged  the  eastern  sky  he 
started  when  a  cock  crowed.  He  listened  for  the  cock 
to  crow  again,  but  for  a  long  time  it  did  not.  Only  a 
man  passed  in  the  uniform  of  the  Great  Northern. 
Huncote,  in  his  receptive  state  of  mind,  guessed  that  he 
was  going  to  work  at  King's  Cross.  Bells  struck  at  the 
neighbouring  church :  a  quarter  to  five.  At  once  Hun- 
cote  felt  a  pang  of  remorse,  and  many  things  streamed 
up  before  him.  He  thought  of  the  rich  and  of  himself 
on  other  mornings  at  a  quarter  to  five,  sleeping  with 
their  cheeks  upon  a  feather  pillow  while  this  railway- 
man, dragged  from  his  bed  in  the  night,  went  out  to 
carry  the  rich  to  their  pleasure.  It  was  abominable, 
this  contrast. 

The  railwayman  stopped  at  the  corner  to  light  his 
pipe,  and  then  he  went  on,  occasionally  taking  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth  to  whistle  the  British  Grenadiers.  If 
Huncote  had  heard  him  it  would  have  interfered  with 
the  dream. 

And  the  pageant  of  early  morning  London  unrolled. 
A  belated  cart  rumbled  past  him  towards  Covent  Gar- 
den, heaped  high  with  carrots  that  glowed  in  the  dawn, 
mystic  vegetables  of  an  Andersen  fairy  tale.  Milk 
carts  began  to  rattle  by,  bounding  upon  the  stones,  the 
most  vital  of  all  carts.  But  at  the  corner  of  a  street, 
the  name  of  which  he  read  casually,  Fordingley  Road, 
was  a  coffee  stall  with  its  lights  still  defying  the  coming 
day,  and  Huncote,  realising  that  he  was  thirsty,  went 
up  to  the  stall  and  asked  for  a  cup  of  coffee.  Never 
before  had  he  been  to  a  coffee  stall,  and  it  looked  queer, 
like  the  kitchen  of  a  caravan  in  a  novel,  with  its  swing- 
ing oil  lamp  and  polished  reflector,  its  white  crockery, 
the  piles  of  bread  and  butter  that  looked  tempting  in 
front  of  the  urn.  Huncote,  as  he  began  to  drink  the 
coffee,  which  was  burning  hot,  threw  a  sidelong  glance 
at  the  cheerful  Silenus  who  kept  the  stall;  he  looked 


38     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

large,  because  over  his  vast  paunch  spread  a  white 
apron,  and  cheerful,  with  bulging  cheeks  touched  by 
rosacia,  and  forward  juttings  made  up  of  his  mouth, 
his  chin,  his  second  chin,  and  probably  his  third  chin. 
The  man  watched  Huncote  narrowly,  for  he  was  not 
one  of  those  West  End  stall-keepers  who  are  well  ac- 
customed to  customers  in  evening  dress. 

"  Cold  night  for  this  time  of  the  year." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ? "  said  Huncote.,  Then,  feeling  it 
necessary  to  say  something  more:  "  Don't  you  find  it 
trying?" 

"  Oh,  I  dunno,"  said  the  stall-keeper,  "  you  got  to 
take  the  good  with  the  bad.  Life,  you  know,  it's  just 
one  damn  thing  after  another,  eh,  Mike  ?  "  He  turned 
towards  the  other  customer,  a  labourer  on  his  way  to 
work  who  evidently  found  it  more  convenient  to  have 
his  breakfast  at  the  stall  than  at  the  doss. 

Mike  had  the  bulkiest  shoulders  and  the  smallest  legs 
that  Huncote  had  ever  seen.  He  was  blue-jawed  and 
hoarse,  with  a  flashy  red-and-green  choker  of  which  he 
evidently  was  proud,  for  he  had  spread  both  ends  over 
his  shirt. 

"  Aye,"  he  said.  He  threw  an  inquisitive  glance  at 
Huncote.  Somehow  a  gentleman  made  him  feel  half- 
awkward,  half -hostile.  Then,  very  curiously :  "  Off 
to  see  yer  Aunt  Maria  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Huncote;  "  what  did  you 
ask?" 

"  Oh,  nothin',  on'y  wondered." 

Well,  of  course,  they  would  wonder,  but  Huncote 
wished  he  knew  what  the  man  had  asked  him.  Without 
understanding  him  quite,  he  was  still  craving  for  com- 
munity. The  stall-keeper  helped  him  a  little  by  return- 
ing to  the  consideration  of  life. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  half  to  himself,  "  life's  a  funny 
thing.  You  never  ask  for  it,  and  you  have  it  shoved  on 
to  you,  and  you  take  a  sort  o'  fancy  to  it," 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  39 

"Gawd  knows  why,"  remarked  Mike. 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  said  the  stall-keeper  aggres- 
sively, "an'  if  Gawd  can't  tell  yer  I  can't ;  but  there  it 
is,  and  just  about  the  time  when  you've  got  kind  o' 
fond  of  it,  well,  it  goes." 

"  Cheer  up,"  remarked  Mike,  "  you  won't  be  missed." 

"  Dartmoor'll  be  sorry  when  you're  took,"  said  the 
stall-keeper  casually,  succumbing  to  a  forty-year-old 
habit  of  giving  tit  for  tat.  "  But,  as  I  was  saying, 
life's  a  funny  thing;  it  comes  and  it  goes, —  like  the 
rheumatics.  It's  ten  o'clock  and  I  gets  the  stall  out; 
and  then  it's  one  o'clock  and  the  flashy  sort  drops  in 
with  their  fancy  men  after  they've  'ad  a  bit  of  a  go-in  in 
the  Tottenham  Court  Road."  He  turned  towards  Hun- 
cote.  "  We  get  a  regular  West  End  crowd  in  these 
parts,"  he  said,  rather  proudly.  "  And  then  it  sort  o' 
scatters.  There's  a  man  from  the  market  now  and 
then,  and  Euston  o'  course.  Then  later  on  perhaps  a 
dog  or  two,  and  that  sort  there,  that's  on  its  uppers." 
Huncote  followed  the  direction  of  his  glance  and  for 
the  first  time  became  conscious  of  another  figure,  a  man 
leaning  against  a  lamp-post,  curiously  angular,  with 
sharp  knobs  where  his  knees  were  and  a  suggestion  of 
elbow  and  collar  bone  under  his  thin  coat.  Nothing 
aggressive  or  philosophic  about  him,  he  seemed  to  stand 
near  the  coffee  stall  because  in  a  way  light  was  warmth. 
A  little  coalition  formed  between  Mike  and  the  stall- 
keeper. 

"  Of  course  it  wouldn't  do  to  give  him  a  cup  o'  corfee 
for  the  arskin'  .  .  ." 

"Don't  want  to  do  the  Salvation  Army  out  of  a 
job." 

"  Still,  if  a  gent  wants  to  stand  treat  .  .  ." 

Huncote  understood,  and  his  heart  grew  soft:  these 
two  men,  neither  of  whom  could  well  afford  to  feed  a 
poor  devil,  were  trying  to  help  him  somehow.  Huncote 
went  to  the  man  against  the  lamp-post ;  he  felt  shy  but 


40     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

yet  not  quite  so  shy  as  when  he  dropped  the  shilling 
beside  that  folded  arm. 

"  Hungry  ?  "  he  said.  The  man  did  not  reply.  He 
was  still  leaning  against  the  lamp-post,  looking  at  him 
with  vacuous  eyes.  Huncote  made  an  effort,  took  him 
by  the  arm.  "  Have  a  cup  of  coffee  with  me,"  he  said. 
The  man  did  not  move,  and  as  Huncote  looked  he  found 
that  he  had  coiled  an  arm  round  the  lamp-post.  He 
shrank  away,  for  the  thing  was  limp.  He  was  dead. 

"Wish  I'd  known,"  said  the  stall-keeper,  a  little 
later.  "  Been  standin'  there  two  or  three  hours ;  they 
very  often  does,  you  know;  they  get  something  in  the 
end.  Mike,  I  say,  Mike." 

But  Mike  was  already  ten  paces  away.  He  turned 
as  he  went  and  called  over  his  shoulder : 

"  I  ain't  seen  nothing,  you  don't  get  me  for  no  bloody 
coroner's  job." 

"  Can't  leave  the  stall,"  said  its  owner ;  "  you  might 
tell  a  policeman  when  you  see  one."  And  he  sighed 
comfortably.  "  Sparrows  can't  fall  without  His  'avin' 
a  hand  in  it,  as  they  says  in  church." 

As  he  walked  away  in  the  growing  light,  Huncote 
realised  that  this  was  life.  Here  were  the  people, 
speaking  a  language  he  hardly  understood,  using  gram- 
mar that  was  repulsive  to  him,  eating  food  that  sickened 
him  and  probably  not  enough  of  that,  anxious  lest  they 
should  be  late  for  work  and"  lose  it.  Dirty,  unshaven, 
untaught,  sleepless.  And  he  donnish  and  modish !  He 
was  conscious  of  a  violent  artificiality  in  the  life  he  led, 
an  artificiality  which,  if  it  locked  the  poor  out,  locked 
him  in.  As  the  people  grew  about  him  in  the  early 
morning,  the  men  with  their  tool-bags,  the  girls  hurry- 
ing towards  the  trams  with  little  pinched  faces,  the 
newspaper  boys,  distributing  the  folded  sheets  before 
they  went  to  school,  Huncote  realised  that  here  indeed 
was  something  that  called  him,  something  that  needed 
him;  the  activities  that  had  rebelled  against  the  other 


".  .  .  INTO  HERE"  41 

artifices,  the  fellowship  and  the  spree  at  the  European, 
were  to  wed  him  unto  the  people,  to  bring  him  close  to 
them,  to  make  their  lives  lighter,  to  fill  his  own.  It 
was  delicious ;  it  was  like  a  personal  revelation. 


CHAPTEE  THE  THIKD 

THE   PEACE   OF    ST.    OLAVES 


"  I  WONDER,"  said  Huncote  aloud,  "  why  I  didn't  tell 
Gorsley." 

He  was  alone  in  a  railway  carriage,  on  his  way  to 
St.  Olaves.  He  had  left  Euston  regretfully,  for  he  had 
not  been  so  long  in  London  as  not  to  love  her  as  she 
lay  in  her  shroud  of  grey  mist,  as  a  sleeping  beauty 
behind  thickets.  He  sighed  as  he  left  behind  him  in 
Euston  yard  the  struggle  of  the  taxis,  the  urgent  life, 
the  fact  that  in  this  town  one  counted  in  millions. 
And  so,  as  the  slow  train  puffed  and  hesitated  over  the 
little  viaduct  that  spans  the  reservoir  whence  are  dis- 
covered the  two  Welsh  Harps,  he  saw  no  beauty  in  the 
plain  that  rises  and  falls  softly  as  a  girl's  breast.  It 
was  cold,  and  autumn  hung  with  blue  streamers  of  mist 
hedges  rarely  necked  with  crisp  red  berries.  Roger 
Huncote  lay  back,  his  beautiful  hands  negligent  in  his 
lap,  the  little  frown  between  his  eyebrows  more  sharply 
brought  out  by  perplexity.  He  looked  worried  that 
morning,  but  whether  because  he  was  surprised  by  his 
own  instinct  or  because  he  did  not  know  whether  he 
was  going  to  enjoy  St.  Olaves  he  could  not  tell.  Simul- 
taneously, it  seemed,  he  was  thinking  of  his  rooms  in 
Clare  Street  and  of  the  Settlement  he  had  left  behind. 
Those  rooms,  at  first  so  unfamiliar,  and  that  Settlement, 
—  large,  white,  and  monastic, —  in  the  corridors  of 
which  he  lost  himself,  had  already  grown  intimate  after 
a  week ;  they  were  homes.  It  was  curious,  he  thought, 
that  he  had  not  been  able  to  tell  Gorsley  that  Bar  and 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      43 

Church,  and  even  Indian  Civil  were  not  for  him,  but 
that  he  had  joined  the  St.  Panwich  Lay  Settlement  with 
the  intention  of  "  bringing  a  gleam  of  sunshine  into 
the  life  of  the  poor."  He  shrank  as  he  thought  of  the 
phrase  which  had  been  used  in  Churton's  office,  when  he 
in  a  way  enlisted,  by  a  lady  he  did  not  know,  who  later, 
he  remembered,  talked  at  great  length  and  with  extreme 
violence  about  the  iniquity  of  the  White  Slave  Traffic. 

There  was  something  wrong  about  the  phrase.  Hun- 
cote's  culture,  which  was  mainly  Latin  and  Greek,  re- 
belled against  it.  But  then  he  told  himself  not  to  be 
priggish.  Not  to  be  priggish  seemed  indeed  just  now 
his  chief  occupation,  for  he  realised,  little  by  little,  that 
if  he  had  not  told  Gorsley  it  was  because  this  offering-up 
of  self  would  have  seemed  priggish ;  also  Gorsley  would 
have  wanted  to  know  why  and  how  and  when  (let  alone 
if  and  though),  and  that  would  have  meant  telling  him 
how  three  months  before  he  had  got  drunk  and  —  and  a 
lot  more ;  been  a  blood,  in  fact.  And  Huncote  realised 
that  it  would  have  made  him  still  more  priggish  in  his 
own  eyes  to  pose  as  a  reformed  blood,  a  sort  of  St.  Paul 
or  Ignatius  of  Loyola.  Indeed,  it  was  not  only  with 
Gorsley  that  he  had  felt  this ;  he  had  felt  it  with  other 
people  whom  he  had  told.  He  tried  to  pass  it  off  lightly 
as  "  getting  an  idea  of  the  condition  of  the  people  ",  or 
used  other  glib  phrases  which  led  people  to  believe  he 
intended  to  stand  for  Parliament.  He  did  not  quite 
deny  this,  so  that  his  romantic  intentions  were  accepted 
as  odd  but  fairly  respectable. 

Still,  as  the  telegraph  wires  ran  up  and  down  by  his 
window  and  he  drew  nearer  to  St.  Olaves,  he  felt  the 
halo  getting  heavier  on  his  head.  He  laughed;  the 
higher  one  got  up  in  sainthood  the  larger  the  halo  grew ; 
there  must  be  a  moment  when  it  gave  one  a  headache, 
and  sin  took  the  place  of  phenacetin.  They  would  look 
at  him,  he  knew,  as  if  he  were  a  curate  without  the  dig- 
nity of  office,  something  like  a  dancing  dervish  trained 


44    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

to  a  certain  extent  by  a  public  school.  And  the  worst 
of  it  was  that  so  far  he  had  done  nothing  much  at  the 
Settlement;  he  had  .learnt  the  geography  of  St.  Pan- 
wich,  which  had  been  a  rather  disgusting  affair,  as  it 
seemed  continually  to  lead  him  into  little  streets  from 
which  the  refuse  was  swept  only  by  heavy  rains,  into 
roaring  ways  full  of  trams,  and,  worse  still  perhaps, 
into  bare  silent  places  where  on  the  one  side  were  genteel 
homes  of  sooty  brick  and  stucco,  with  Nottingham  lace 
curtains,  "  Apartment "  cards,  green  china  flowerpots 
(or  pink),  in  the  ground-floor  front  window,  and  on  the 
other  side  a  blank  wall  extending,  it  seemed,  for  miles, 
along  a  railway-goods  yard  or  an  India-rubber  works, 
unless  the  smell  was  bad  malt.  Those  were  the  worst 
streets,  so  long  and  bleak,  so  populous  between  eight  and 
nine  and  six  and  seven,  when  clerks  and  shorthand 
ladies  issued  forth  or  returned,  deserted  at  other  times, 
and  maintaining  so  well  the  private  contempt  that  pre- 
vents Number  10  from  being  contaminated  by  Number 
11.  Much  better  he  liked  Crapp's  Lane  that  straggled 
away  behind  the  Settlement,  full  of  barrows,  aggressive, 
kindly  costers,  tired  women  with  resigned  string  bags, 
and  pink,  shouting  butchers.  He  had  addressed  envel- 
opes for  a  meeting:  the  first  dozen  had  been  quite  ex- 
citing. He  had  checked  accounts  and,  on  being  told  to 
do  so,  more  or  less  forged  a  voucher  for  expenses. 
Since  then  he  went  about  rather  uneasy  in  case  one  day 
the  auditor  should  find  it  out.  Still,  he  had  his  halo. 
Sticky  things,  haloes ! 

Elspeth  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  station.  This 
was  exactly  what  he  did  not  want;  if  it  had  been  his 
mother  or  fluffy  Flora  there  would  have  been  tittle-tattle 
about  the  neighbours,  or  they  would  have  talked  about 
the  weather  or  something.  But  here  was  Elspeth,  dark, 
brown-eyed,  thin-lipped,  rather  flat-chested,  as  usual  in 
well-fitting  tweeds,  with  her  air  of  knowing  what  she 
wanted  in  life  and  doing  it  too,  confound  her!  Hun- 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES     45 

cote  disliked  Elspeth  as  a  woman  and  liked  her  as  a 
companion,  a  horrid  combination  when  one  is  feeling 
nervous. 

"Hallo!"  said  Elspeth. 

"  Hallo !  "  said  Huncote.     He  struggled  with  his  bag. 

"  Let  me  give  you  a  hand,"  said  Elspeth. 

"  Oh,  don't  trouble." 

But  as  he  tried  to  get  the  bag,  which  was  rather  too 
long,  through  the  carriage  doorway,  Elspeth's  hard, 
capable  hand  shot  out,  seized  one  of  the  handles,  and 
with  one  haul  brought  the  bag  thudding  on  to  the  plat- 
form. Huncote  followed  without  a  word  of  thanks. 
He  hated  Elspeth  in  her  moods  of  hearty  efficiency,  but 
she,  quite  unconscious,  had  already  called  a  porter  by  a 
loud  "  Hi !  "  and  in  a  few  seconds  was  bustling  brother, 
porter,  and  bag  towards  the  wicket. 

When  they  got  into  the  High  Street  Huncote  had  to 
answer  a  few  questions.  Yes,  he  was  feeling  pretty  fit. 
Yes,  he  had  had  a  good  journey.  For  Elspeth,  in  vir- 
tue of  living  at  St.  Olaves  ten  months  or  so  a  year,  had 
the  country  habits  of  such  interests.  As  they  went  on 
he  had  to  say  how  long  he  was  staying  and  what  train 
he  thought  he  would  catch  on  the  way  back,  also  to 
notice  the  new  wing  at  the  fire  station  to  which  Elspeth 
added  a  threat  that  he  should  visit  it  on  Monday  before 
he  left.  He  grew  quite  sulky. 

Hang  the  girl  with  her  little  interests.  And  then  he 
pulled  himself  up.  No,  he  mustn't  be  priggish,  he 
mustn't  be  swollen  out  with  his  metropolitan  quality, 
his  experience  of  the  lower  classes.  He  was  about  to 
frame  an  intelligent  question  destined  to  lead  Elspeth 
to  talk  of  the  things  that  interested  them  both,  the 
latest  essays,  for  instance,  when  again  he  was  paralysed 
by  the  idea  that  if  he  did  that  he  would  feel  still  more 
patronising.  Fortunately  Mrs.  Huncote's  house  lay 
but  ten  minutes  from  the  station  and,  fortunately  too, 
he  arrived  so  late  as  to  have  but  a  few  minutes  over 


46     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

before  he  dressed  for  dinner.  And  so  he  just  had  time 
to  kiss  his  mother  and  Flora,  who  were  quite  shrill  and 
excited  and  trickling  comments  on  his  new  suit  and  the 
extortionate  behaviour  of  the  porter,  before  he  went  to 
his  bedroom.  It  struck  him  that  he  had  not  kissed 
Elspeth:  somehow  one  didn't.  With  a  little  sigh  of 
exasperation  he  undid  his  bag  and  began  to  dress. 
There  was  about  all  this  something  that  annoyed  him 
and  made  him  think  of  a  cloud  of  midges  dancing  in 
the  summer  above  a  road. 


II 

The  Huncotes  were  a  family  without  a  history  in  the 
sense  that  theirs  was  so  very  much  the  history  of  any 
other  family.  There  was  not  even  a  black  sheep  in  the 
colonies ;  the  nearest  approach  was  Roger  in  the  Settle- 
ment. Colonel  Huncote  had  hidden  away  his  wife  and 
family  in  the  house  at  St.  Olaves  in  the  way  common 
to  soldiers  who  have  entrusted  their  destinies  to  the 
Colonial  Office.  From  time  to  time  Mrs.  Huncote  had 
disappeared,  leaving  the  house  in  charge  of  her  elder 
sister,  now  dead,  to  join  her  husband  for  a  few  months 
in  East  Africa  or  Singapore.  But  by  the  time  Roger 
was  ten  his  father  was  dead,  killed  under  Kitchener  at 
Omdurman,  and  Mrs.  Huncote  had  settled  into  pretty 
widowhood.  Of  the  three  children  Elspeth  alone  re- 
membered the  wanderer  at  all  well,  the  queer  beads  and 
the  silver-studded  shawls  he  brought  from  foreign  parts. 
Flora  had  but  one  memory  of  him,  a  box  of  Turkish 
delight  which  she  vowed  he  must  have  bought  at  Pera, 
which  was  not  likely.  For  Roger  his  father  was  a  sort 
of  legend  whose  tellings  had  not  always  coincided  with 
the  holidays  of  his  first  year  at  the  preparatory,  some- 
thing that  had  dropped  assegais  about  the  house  and 
then  vanished,  leaving  his  mother  the  pretty  centre  of 
a  private  world.  It  was  fortunate  from  his  son's  point 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      47 

of  view  that  Colonel  Huncote  had  not  lived,  for  they 
were  so  much  alike  that  they  would  probably  have  dis- 
liked each  other  intensely;  he  would  have  disliked  his 
father  as  he  disliked  Elspeth  and  not  forgiven  him,  be- 
cause to  a  man  what  is  annoying  in  a  woman  is  hateful 
in  another  man.  Colonel  Huncote  had  all  the  hard, 
generous  absurdity  of  his  son, —  principles,  sense  of 
duty,  and  so  forth.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  serve 
the  Empire  just  as  Eoger  made  up  his  mind  to  serve 
the  people ;  he  had  thought  woman  inferior  and  lovable, 
and  so  he  had  left  his  son  about  seven  hundred  a  year, 
with  the  reversion  after  his  mother's  death  of  a  further 
nine  hundred,  while  Elspeth  and  Flora  were  given  two 
hundred  and  fifty  a  year  each  when  their  mother  died ; 
until  then  nothing.  All  through  their  life  their  free- 
dom was  to  be  measured  out  by  trustees ;  he  had  thought 
that  women  should  rule  the  household,  and  that  was 
why  Mrs.  Huncote  dominated  her  daughter's  incomes, 
but  subject  to  man,  so  she  too  had  trustees.  And  he 
emphasised  his  belief  in  man  by  letting  Eoger,  of  whom 
he  was  proud  because  the  child  had  achieved  the  feat  of 
being  his  only  son,  to  have  seven  hundred  a  year  to  play 
with  when  he  was  twenty-one. 

All  this  in  a  way  had  repeated  itself  in  Eoger,  though 
never  having  had  to  think  of  money  he  never  thought 
of  it  now.  While  dependence  had  made  Elspeth  hard 
and  Flora  sly,  independence  had  made  Eoger  ignorant. 
He  had  been  a  rich  undergraduate,  but  he  had  not  been 
an  extravagant  one.  For,  like  his  father,  he  was  not 
very  liable  to  impulses.  Ideas  came  to  him  slowly,  and 
when  they  came  they  set  every  day  harder  and  harder, 
like  cement.  Intuitions  came  to  him  too,  but  only  by 
degrees,  and  that  was  why  he  made  few  friends,  for  by 
the  time  he  had  become  quite  sure  that  he  wanted  to 
know  them  they  had  generally  got  a  little  tired  of  want- 
ing to  know  him. 

Always  he  felt  a  little  his  isolation;  he  was  capable 


48     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

of  everything  that  those  close-set,  deep-set  eyes  prom- 
ised: every  generosity,  every  heroism,  every  folly,  and 
every  cruelty,  when  once  the  impelling  idea  had  prop- 
erly got  into  his  head.  But  an  impulse  had  made  him 
follow  when  Swinburne  piped :  though  he  could  not  be 
influenced  he  could  be  carried  away,  because  he  disliked 
to  refuse  to  do  anything  that  somebody  else  wanted  him 
to  do.  He  had  got  drunk  because  he  might  have  hurt 
Ditton's  feelings  if  he  refused  to  drink ;  and  it  was  quite 
possible,  though  he  would  never  know  it,  that  some  ob- 
scure sense  of  chivalry  had  prevented  him  from  leaving 
in  the  lurch  that  fair-haired  creature,  whose  face  he 
certainly  could  not  remember,  and  refusing  to  drive 
with  her  to  Theobald's  Road.  So  he  rather  disliked  his 
own  impulses;  they  were  things  that  interfered  with 
his  calm  affections,  with  the  reasonable  allowances  he 
liked  to  make  for  people's  unreasonableness.  He  was 
troubled  with  youth,  or  rather  he  had  the  mind  of  a 
man  in  the  body  of  a  boy.  There  lay  his  secret  weak- 
ness, the  idealism  that  made  him  the  prey  of  his  own 
ideal.  Romantic,  he  wanted  to  believe  what  he  believed 
just  because  he  believed  it,  and  it  was  cricket  to  go  on 
believing  it.  When  in  a  romantic  mood  his  reason 
could  be  snubbed,  and  he  could  hope,  pursuing  the 
shadow,  to  turn  it  into  a  prey. 

Ill 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote,  with  the  cheerful,  smil- 
ing emphasis  that  generally  accompanies  that  word, 
"  and  how  d'you  like  the  Settlement  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  yet,  Mother,"  said  Huncote.  "  After  a 
week  you'd  hardly  expect  me  to." 

"  Still,"  said  Elspeth,  "  you  must  have  formed  some 
idea  of  whether  it's  any  good." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  it's  some  good,"  said  her  brother ; 
"  anybody  could  see  that,  but  I  can't  make  up  my  mind 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      49 

like  that."  He  stopped.  He  felt  dishonest;  he  was 
really  enthusiastic  about  the  Settlement,  but  it  seemed 
youthful  to  show  it.  Moreover  Elspeth  was  again  being 
truculent. 

"  So,"  said  Flora,  throwing  him  from  her  large  grey 
eyes  one  of  her  archest  looks,  "  so,  Eoger,  we  shan't  see 
you  with  your  collar  back  to  front,  shall  we  ?  "  Hun- 
cote  looked  irritated,  and  Flora  went  on  chipping  him, 
much  to  his  annoyance,  for  they  were  at  dinner  and  the 
parlourmaid  was  listening.  "  I've  always  wanted  to 
have  a  brother  in  the  Church,"  said  Flora  sweetly. 
"  Somebody  who  looked  starved  and  pale  and  interest- 
ing, you  know,  Eoger.  Somebody  rather  saintly;  they 
look  so  nice  at  tea.  But,  oh,  I  do  wish  they  wouldn't 
wear  collars  like  that;  why  can't  they  wear  something 
really  nice  —  let  us  say  an  amethyst  toby  frill  ? " 

Mrs.  Huncote  laughed.  "  Hush,  Flora !  That 
sounds  very  ritualistic.  What  would  the  Dean  say  if 
he  heard  you  ?  " 

Even  Elspeth  entered  into  the  chipping.  "  Anyhow, 
saints  never  shave  and  seldom  wash,  Eoger ;  think  of  the 
trouble  it'll  save  you !  " 

Her  brother  flung  her  a  savage  look ;  somehow,  though 
he  prized  her  intelligence,  he  stood  less  from  her  than 
from  his  lighter  mother  and  sister.  "  Don't  be  silly," 
he  snapped,  "  you  know  quite  well  there's  nothing 
churchy  about  the  Settlement.  We're  just  a  little  crowd 
who  have  come  together  to  see  if  we  can  teach  the — " 
He  became  fiercely  oppressed  by  the  maid  who  held  on 
his  left  a  dish  of  finger  chips.  "  Well,  you  know  what 
I  mean,  people  who  aren't  as  well  off  as  we  are." 

He  helped  himself  to  potatoes  revengefully,  because 
the  maid  had  a  rather  coarse  red  hand,  and  he  was 
acutely  conscious  of  the  social  difference  between  it  and 
the  rosy  finger-tips  that  played  with  Flora's  napkin 
ring.  There  was  a  little  silence  on  this  serious  procla- 
mation. Elspeth  gave  a  faint  sniff,  and  Flora  hesi- 


50     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

tated  as  if  she  had  been  caught  teasing  an  elephant  with 
a  peacock's  feather.  Then  Mrs.  Huncote,  who  already 
repented  of  the  teasing  she  had  been  a  party  to,  said, 
quite  mildly: 

"Well,  well,  leave  him  alone,  girls;  after  all,  we 
must  all  do  something  in  life." 

This  diplomatic  speech  was  to  Roger  more  galling 
than  even  the  teasing,  for  his  mother  meant  that  he 
had  "  taken  up  "  social  work  as  he  might  have  "  taken 
up"  journalism  or  golf.  But  he  blessed  her  for  the 
diversion  and  strove  to  increase  the  gap  by  introducing 
a  new  subject.  The  parlourmaid  having  left  the  room, 
he  plunged. 

"  How's  Trunch  ?     I  haven't  seen  him  yet." 

Mrs.  Huncote  looked  rather  demurely  towards  the 
table-cloth.  Flora  began  to  giggle  and  was  sternly  ad- 
monished by  Elspeth  not  to  be  a  little  fool,  upon  which 
Roger  followed  up  his  advantage.  "  So,  Mother,  I  see 
from  the  way  you  take  this  question  that  the  terror  of 
St.  Olaves  has  been  at  it  again." 

"Roger!" 

"  It's  no  use  looking  shocked.  Why  don't  you  dis- 
miss him  if  you  feel  like  that  about  him  ?  " 

"  You  know  quite  well  I  can't  send  him  away,"  said 
Mrs.  Huncote,  "  even  if  — " 

"  Every  nice  girl  loves  a  coachman,"  Flora  sang 
softly. 

Even  Elspeth  laughed. 

"  And  who's  the  lady  ?  Or  rather  who  was  the  lady 
yesterday  —  for  there's  no  knowing  who  it  is  to- 
day?" ' 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote,  very 
staid.  "  Trunch  doesn't  come  to  me  with  his  stories." 

"  No,  Mother  darling,"  said  Flora,  "  but  he  goes  to 
Betty,  the  only  woman  in  the  world  he  can  treat  as  a 
confidant  because  she  happens  to  be  sixty-two,  and  she 
comes  to  you,  and  so  you  do  know,  and  you  may  as  well 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES     51 

tell  Roger,  because  what  you  won't  tell  him  Betty  tells 
—  well,  I  won't  say  who,  and  she  tells  me." 

Mrs.  Huncote  tried  to  look  severe,  grew  resigned, 
then  humorously  pathetic.  "  What  am  I  to  do  with 
these  children,  Roger  ?  They  do  grow  up  so." 

At  that  moment  Roger,  who  had  as  a  way  out  plunged 
into  their  coachman's  amorous  adventures,  suddenly 
felt  that  the  topic  should  not  be  discussed  before  Flora, 
even  if  she  did  know  all  about  it.  "  A  girl's  a  girl, 
after  all,"  he  thought.  "  She  may  know,  but  she 
shouldn't  seem  to." 

When  dessert  was  on  the  table  Mrs.  Huncote  summed 
up  the  situation :  "  No,  I  couldn't  dismiss  Trunch 
really;  he's  been  with  me  thirteen  years,  and  he  was 
with  your  father  ten  years  before  that.  One  must 
make  allowances,  Roger." 

Huncote  felt  a  warm  little  rush  of  affection  as  he 
looked  at  his  pretty  mother,  still  young  somehow,  though 
fifty-one,  in  her  funny  semi-arty,  semi-messy  clothes, 
with  her  fair  and  grey,  untidy  but  pretty  hair,  and  her 
general  likeness  to  a  hollyhock  after  a  shower.  Besides, 
his  own  expedient  for  getting  rid  of  an  inconvenient 
topic  was  used  against  him.  His  mother  began  to  dis- 
cuss The  Golden  Bowl  and  grew  rather  eloquent  as  to 
the  merits  of  Mr.  Henry  James.  He  was  her  favourite 
author,  and  she  loved  him  best  in  his  later  moods.  She 
forgave  him  Roderick  Hudson  and  the  other  intelligible 
portions  of  his  works,  because  one  had  to  make  allow- 
ances for  youth,  and  even  Mr.  Henry  James  must  have 
been  young  sometime.  For  a  while  Roger  and  his 
mother  discussed  Henry  James  with  a  little  assistance 
from  Elspeth  who  frankly  hated  him,  while  Flora  said 
nothing  and  played  "  He  loves  me,  he  loves  me  not " 
with  the  salted  almonds.  At  last  she  could  bear  it  no 
more  and,  using  a  gap  in  the  conversation,  thrust  in  the 
dull  subject  of  the  dull  autumn. 

"  No  more  tennis,"  she  sighed,  "  and  uninteresting 


52     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

tea  parties  in  drawing-rooms  instead  of  in  gardens,  and 
no  dances  for  another  month  or  two!  I  wish  I  could 
shoot."  She  was  rallied  for  a  while,  reminded  that  she 
could  not  throw  a  cricket  ball.  She  looked  very  pretty 
and  mutinous,  but  the  conversation  tailed  off  until  at 
last  the  three  women  left  Roger  alone  for  five  minutes 
with  the  port  decanter,  so  that  it  should  not  be  said  that 
the  isolation  of  the  male  after  dinner  had  not  been  paid 
its  traditional  tribute.  For  a  few  moments  Huncote 
thought  of  this  conversation. 

Heavens !  How  awkward  it  was.  They  had  nibbled 
at  the  Settlement  and  chaffed  about  it ;  they  had  nibbled 
at  that  nonsense  about  their  coachman  who,  at  the  age 
of  forty-eight,  had  more  love  affairs  in  a  month  than 
Huncote  had  had  in  his  whole  life;  and  even  the  dis- 
cussion on  Henry  James  had  tailed  off  on  side  issues, 
on  silly  little  jokes  about  sentences  of  twenty-three 
lines.  It  was  as  if  everything  between  him  and  his 
people  were  railed-off,  as  if  something  stood  between 
them  and  prevented  them  from  being  simple  with  each 
other;  could  they  really  believe  that  in  a  sort  of  way 
he  had  gone  into  the  Church  ?  That  would  make  a  dif- 
ference, of  course ;  they  would  be  mortals  talking  to  one 
dedicated  to  the  other  world.  "  Ridiculous ! "  he 
summed  up,  finished  the  port,  and  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

He  remained  uneasy.  Mrs."  Huncote  sat  at  the  secre- 
taire, "just  finishing  off  a  letter",  as  she  put  it  (she 
was  always  finishing  off  a  letter),  while  Elspeth  talked 
of  the  doings  of  people  in  St.  Olaves,  most  of  whom  he 
did  not  know,  and  Flora  flourished  on  the  piano  the 
turkey  trot  and  the  bunny  hug  which  had  just  come  to 
town.  It  was  only  a  little  later,  when  at  ten  o'clock 
Mrs.  Huncote  said  she  must  have  a  little  walk  in  the 
garden  before  going  to  bed,  that  some  ease  and  sincerity 
came  to  her  son. 

The  garden  was  large  and  old-fashioned;  it  was  cut 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      53 

off  from  the  house  by  a  shrubbery.  Before  this  was  a 
bed  where  Mrs.  Huncote  planted  Shakespeare  flowers. 
Beyond  were  the  tennis  lawn  and  the  pergola  which 
ended  in  that  secret  and  delightful  kitchen  garden, 
where  Eoger  as  a  small  boy  had  so  often  raided  the 
currant  bushes.  For  a  minute  or  two  mother  and  son, 
arm  in  arm,  walked  along  the  paths  talking  desultorily 
without  listening  much  to  what  they  were  saying.  The 
night  was  neither  warm  nor  cold,  and  a  brilliant  moon 
made  the  gravel  silvery  and  the  shrubs  thick  black. 
There  was  no  noise  at  all  except  now  and  then,  and  it 
seemed- far  away  in  the  house,  a  few  notes  of  a  two-step 
scattered  from  Flora's  piano. 

"  Eoger,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote  suddenly,  "  are  you 
quite  sure  that  you've  chosen  the  right  thing  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  Mother." 

"  If  you  really  think  that  it's  all  right ;  you  know  I 
wouldn't  go  against  anything  you  wanted ;  you  do  know 
that,  Eoger  ?  "  she  said,  a  little  anxiously. 

"Dear  little  Mother,"  said  Huncote,  and  squeezed 
her  arm. 

"  Qnly,"  Mrs.  Huncote  went  on,  "  I  want  you  to  be 
sure.  You  will  be  sure  by  and  by,  and  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  something." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me  not  to  go  on  if  at  any 
time  you  feel  you  don't  want  to.  I  mean,  if  you  find 
you've  made  a  mistake,  that  your  heart  isn't  in  the 
work.  Eoger  dear,  you  won't  do  anything  silly  like 
that,  will  you  ?  If  you  find  you've  made  a  mistake,  you 
won't  be  proud  and  go  on  when  you  ought  to  give  it 
up?" 

"  That's  all  right,  Mother,"  said  Eoger,  rather 
gruffly. 

He  thought  her  sweet  and  delicate.  She  disapproved 
of  what  he  was  doing  and  very  sweetly  hinted  that 
though  she  disapproved  he  might  be  right ;  she  was  his 


54     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

mother,  and  whether  he  did  right  or  wrong  she  was 
going  to  try  to  prevent  him  from  making  himself  un- 
happy. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  more  assured  now,  "  I  do  feel  I've 
done  the  right  thing.  I  don't  fancy  anything  else, 
either.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  soldier,  and  I  shouldn't 
do  any  good  at  the  Bar,  I  don't  talk  well  enough.  Be- 
sides —  oh,  Mother,  if  you  could  see  the  things  I've 
been  seeing  not  only  this  week  but  before,  the  horrible 
poverty  and  the  dirt,  all  sorts  of  things  which  make  you 
want  to  go  out  and  stop  them." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote,  a  little  shaken 
by  his  earnestness,  "  I  know,  Roger.  Of  course  one 
does  what  one  can  with  charity  and  all  that,  and  I  know 
it  isn't  much.  Sometimes  I  feel  we  ought  to  let  the 
poor  alone  a  little.  There  are  lots  of  horrid  things  in 
the  world  which  we  have  to  let  alone." 

"  Trunch,"  said  Roger,  suddenly  mocking. 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Roger ;  I  can't  send  him  away.  It's 
not  only  that  I'm  sentimental  because  he's  been  with 
the  family  so  long,  but  in  these  days  —  one  gets  so 
mixed  up  about  sex-problems  with  the  things  one  hears 
and  reads." 

Roger  smiled  in  the  darkness  and  pressed  her  arm 
again.  She  was  charming  with  her  muddled  impulses 
and  her  incoherence.  He  loved  the  way  in  which  she 
doubtfully  dispensed  charity  while  reading  socialist 
pamphlets  which  told  her  that  charity  created  the  evil 
which  she  relieved.  And  this  Trunch,  this  absurd, 
perpetual  Trunch  case,  which  ended  now  and  then  by 
her  soothing  an  infuriated  mother,  or  remonstrating 
with  Trunch  and  being  worsted  by  his  plea  that  the 
girl  "  come  after  him !  "  She  was  uncertain  as  a  leaf 
upon  the  wind  and,  as  a  leaf,  graceful. 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      55 


"  Coming  for  a  walk  ?  "  said  Elspeth,  at  about  a 
quarter  to  eleven  on  Sunday  morning. 

Huncote  hesitated  for  a  moment  before  replying. 
As  a  rule  he  had  gone  to  church  with  his  mother  and 
both  his  sisters,  that  is  before  he  went  up  to  Oxford. 
And  there  he  had  done  the  usual  sort  of  things,  attended 
chapel  because  it  saved  him  explanations  and  had  to  be 
done.  But  three  years  at  Gabs  brought  a  new  quality 
into  his  churchgoing,  broke  the  continuity  of  the  affair. 
He  saw  Mrs.  Huncote  watching  him  over  the  Observer, 
and  Flora  and  Elspeth  too  ;  they  were  all  watching  him  : 
Mrs.  Huncote  half-humorously,  Flora  frankly  mis- 
chievously, Elspeth  rigid  and  rather  truculent.  And 
an  inner  Huncote  watched  him  too  with  a  compli- 
cated air.  "  You  don't  mind  going  to  church,"  said 
the  inner  Huncote,  "only  if  you  do  they'll  think 
you're  churchy  because  you're  in  the  Settlement;  and 
so  you'd  better  not  go  because,  though  church  isn't 
really  churchy,  in  you  it  would  seem  churchy."  So 
he  said,  with  an  affectation  of  ease  which  he  did  not 
feel: 

"  Eight  oh  !     -When  do  we  start  ?  " 

"  In  a  minute,"  said  Elspeth.  "  Let  me  finish  a 
note,  will  you  ?  " 

Huncote  did  not  even  light  a  cigarette,  for  he  knew 
Elspeth's  notes  ;  they  generally  amounted  to  :  "  Dear 
-  .  Sorry  I  can't  come.  Yrs."  A  reaction,  no 
doubt,  against  her  mother's  habits  of  abundant  corre- 
spondence with  everybody  she  had  ever  met.  As  Els- 
peth wrote  Mrs.  Huncote  looked  at  her,  stimulated  by 
this  person  in  the  act  of  writing,  and  vaguely  wondered 
whether  she  would  have  time  before  leaving  for  church 
to  start  that  letter  to  Mabel.  She  knew  she  would  not, 
but  she  liked  to  play  with  the  idea. 

"  Flora,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  you'd  find  me  the  post- 


56     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

office  guide;  I  want  to  be  quite  sure  when  the  mail 
leaves  for  Honolulu." 

Flora  gave  her  the  book  with  a  little  smile.  She 
knew  quite  well  that  her  mother  knew  the  date  of  the 
mail,  had  known  it  for  weeks.  But  still,  she  treated 
the  post-office  guide,  her  mother's  bible,  with  half  re- 
spect. 

In  another  few  minutes,  both  in  brown  tweeds,  both 
carrying  sticks,  brother  and  sister  stepped  out  of  St. 
Olaves  at  the  smart  heel  and  toe  trot  that  Elspeth  called 
walking.  It  was  rather  cold,  and  the  fresh  air  stung  a 
little  red  into  Elspeth's  pale  cheeks.  As  soon  as  they 
had  turned  off  the  High  Street,  by  the  Red  Lion,  and 
passed  through  the  dairy  and  the  grounds  of  the  home 
farm  (now  a  laundry),  they  were  in  the  country.  For 
some  time  they  did  not  speak;  there  was  something  de- 
licious in  the  fresh,  hard  morning  and  the  wet  scent  of 
dead  leaves  that  seemed  so  old.  It  was  not  winter  yet 
and  the  year  sick  to  death,  but  rather  the  protest  of 
summer  holding  up  to  St.  Martin  suppliant  hands. 
And  the  wind,  buoyant  as  a  rosy  sailor,  urged  them  on. 
As  they  went  down  the  path,  deep-rutted  by  the  carts, 
they  could  see  the  valley  of  the  Char  grow,  opening  like 
a  pale  green  leafy  cup  and  slowly  rising  in  the  south 
towards  its  guard  of  scattered  pine  trees,  between  which 
glowed  the  blue  pearl  of  the  sky.  An  exhilaration  was 
in  Huncote,  as  if  he  had  escaped  something.  And  the 
wonder  of  it  was  that  Elspeth  felt  it  too. 

"  Better  than  church,"  she  said,  with  quick  intui- 
tion. 

He  laughed,  flung  her  a  glad  look :  here  was  Elspeth, 
the  companion,  again  with  her  shoving  irony  so  like  a 
young  man,  but  more  perceptive,  so  little  like  a  young 
man. 

"  Eather,"  he  said,  and  drew  in  a  large  breath. 

There  was  a  pause  and  Elspeth  said : 

"  That  was  all  rot,  wasn't  it  ?     I  mean  what  we  were 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      57 

talking  about  last  night.  You're  not  going  to  take  or- 
ders, are  you  ? " 

"Of  course  I'm  not,"  said  Huncote,  but  this  time 
without  acidity.  "  If  I  were  going  to  take  orders  I'd 
have  started  long  ago.  You've  got  it  quite  wrong  about 
the  Settlement,  all  of  you." 

"  We  were  only  chipping  you,"  said  Elspeth. 

"  I  know,  but  under  the  chipping  there  was  igno- 
rance. There's  nothing  churchy  about  the  Settlement ; 
you  can  call  us  social  reformers  if  you  want  to  say 
anything  offensive  but,  so  far  as  I  gather,  what  we're 
really  up  to  is  to  try  and  civilise  the  people  of  Eng- 
land." 

Elspeth  laughed.  "  You  talk  as  if  we  were  Hotten- 
tots!" 

Huncote  paused  for  a  moment  to  point  with  his  stick 
towards  the  Char  that  wound,  regular  as  a  heraldic  grey 
serpent,  about  the  green  meadows;  then  said: 

"  We  are  Hottentots  in  a  way,  only  in  a  way ;  we've 
only  got  half  the  noble  savagery  and  it  isn't  the  noble 
half.  I  haven't  been  long  in  St.  Panwich,  but  if  you 
could  only  see  what  I've  seen  already  .  .  ." 

"  We've  got  our  own  wife-beaters  here,"  Elspeth  in- 
terrupted. 

"  I  don't  mean  wife-beating,  or  drunkenness,  or 
thieving,  or  anything  material,"  said  Huncote  reflec- 
tively. "  I  hardly  know  whether  I  can  explain,  Els- 
peth ;  it's  an  attitude,  a  sort  of  continual  grab  at  food, 
and  no  wonder,  for  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  enough  of  it 
to  go  round.  But,  what's  much  worse,  there's  a  grab 
at  more  money  than  can  buy  food.  It  looks  as  if  the 
only  thing  they  could  think  about  was  more  money  for 
clothes,  for  trips  to  Margate,  for  picture  palaces.  A 
sort  of  heavy  lack  of  understanding  that  the  more  you 
have  of  anything,  things  of  that  sort  I  mean,  the  heavier 
they  lie  on  your  stomach.  It's  materialism,  that's  what 
it  is." 


58     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Everything's  material,"  said  Elspeth. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  In  a  way  you're  right. 
The  emotion  you  get  out  of  a  steak-and-kidney  pie  is  an 
emotion  just  like  the  one  you  get  out  of  a  Quentin 
Matsys.  But  there's  a  difference  of  grade.  If  you  like 
to  stay  in  the  material  field  there's  the  difference  be- 
tween the  silk  purse  and  the  sow's  ear.  Down  there, 
in  St.  Panwich,  it's  sow's  ears  all  the  time.  We  want 
to  wake  them  up  to  the  silk  purse." 

Elspeth  laughed. 

"I  see  what  you  mean.  Besides,  I  know,  I've  seen 
your  little  prospectuses:  dances  and  pretty  words  and 
good  pictures,  and  the  Hundred  Best  Books." 

"  Hang  it  all !  "  said  Huncote,  a  little  exasperated, 
"  isn't  it  better  than  foul  words  and  the  hundred  worst 
murder  trials  ?  " 

Elspeth  shut  her  mouth  rather  tight,  and  for  a  min- 
ute or  two  they  stepped  smartly  across  the  meadows  and 
the  bridge,  known  as  Crumble  Bridge  because  the 
boundary  line  of  a  parish  ran  through  the  middle  of  it, 
and  one  parish  would  not  repair  its  half. 

"  I  don't  disagree  with  you,"  she  said,  "  which 
doesn't  mean  that  I  agree.  At  the  bottom  I  disagree 
very  hard ;  I'm  no  democrat.  The  people  want  ruling, 
kindly  but  firmly,  like  horses.  I'll  refuse  no  horse  a 
feed  of  oats,  but  I'll  refuse  him  an  over-feed." 

"  It's  an  under-feed  you  give  them  in  St.  Panwich," 
said  Huncote,  in  a  voice  which  surprised  him,  so  bitter 
was  it  and  so  low-pitched.  "  Still,  it's  their  business 
with  their  unions  and  all  that  to  put  that  sort  of  thing 
right.  What  we've  got  to  do  -in  the  Settlement  is  to  try 
and  make  them  decent,  keep  clean,  use  decent  English, 
learn  something  that  they  don't  get  out  of  the  papers, 
so  that  when  they  do  come  to  the  well-spread  board  they 
may  not  behave  like  pigs  at  a  trough." 

Elspeth  did  not  reply;  she  was  fond  of  Roger,  and 
though  she  thought  him  ridiculously  idealistic  she  was 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      59 

not  minded  to  interfere  with  him.  She  too,  she  re- 
flected, had  been  like  that.  (She  was  quite  wrong;  she 
never  had. )  He  would  learn.  When  he  had  learnt  he 
would  do  nothing  without  the  advice  of  the  C.O.S., 
and  then  everything  would  be  all  right.  For  a  long 
time  they  did  not  speak,  not  indeed  for  a  good  quarter 
of  an  hour  as,  having  gained  the  crest  of  the  hill,  they 
began  to  circle  the  valley.  When  at  length  Huncote 
spoke  again  it  was  not  of  the  Settlement. 

"  I  say,  I  don't  think  we'd  better  go  down  towards  the 
lodge ;  we  shall  never  be  in  by  one  if  we  do." 

"  Must  get  my  six  miles,"  replied  Elspeth.  "  I  feel 
like  chewed  string  if  I  don't," 

Huncote  did  not  protest ;  he  merely  followed  a  little 
faster.  He  had  long  known  Elspeth's  energy,  her  care 
of  her  ruddy  health  for  which  walks  alone  were  respon- 
sible, as  she  hated  what  she  called  the  silly  concentration 
of  throwing  balls  about.  Only  later,  as  they  turned 
towards  home,  did  her  silence  begin  to  oppress  him,  and 
a  mischievous  impulse  flashed  to  his  mind.  He  thought 
of  Trunch,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  Elspeth  too  had 
a  skeleton. 

"  How's  'Erb  ?  "  he  asked  skilfully. 

Elspeth's  jaws  came  together  rather  sharply. 

"  Gone,"  she  said. 

Huncote  looked  at  her  sideways,  much  amused  by  the 
dark  red  flush  which  had  sprung  into  her  cheeks. 

"  He  hasn't  gone  to  St.  Panwich,  I  suppose  ? "  he 
asked.  "  If  he  has  I'll  have  to  rescue  him,  don't  you 
think?" 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  Elspeth  snarled,  "  I  may  have  made 
a  mistake;  still  very  likely  he  had  more  to  do  with  it 
than  you  think." 

She  looked  so  angry  that  Huncote  caressingly  took 
her  by  the  arm. 

"  Don't  be  ratty,"  he  said,  but  still  he  could  not  help 
teasing  her.  "  Let  me  see,"  he  said,  "  let's  review  the 


60     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

facts.  The  young  man  known  as  'Erb,  aged  19,  com- 
mitted—  adultery,  that's  the  word,  Elspeth,  isn't  it, 
in  St.  Olaves  with  —  I've  forgotten  her  name,  who  was 
a  pearl  of  innocence,  wasn't  she  ? " 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  nonsense !  " 

"  And  you  solemnly  warned  him,  didn't  you,  that 
he'd  have  to  marry  her,  and  he  refused  ?  And  you  told 
his  employer  to  make  him,  and  he  ran  away  to  London, 
let's  hope  to  St.  Panwich."  Elspeth  became  statuesque 
in  rigidity.  "  And  I've  just  heard  that  this  unfortu- 
nate victim  was  not  only  married,  but  more  than  mar- 
ried, and  frequently  married.  Oh,  Elspeth,  is  this 
true  ?  " 

His  sister  seemed  about  to  make  a  vicious  reply,  then 
realised  that  he  was  only  teasing  her. 

"  I've  half  forgotten  it,"  she  said,  "  but  still  how 
could  I  know?  It's  generally  the  man's  fault,  isn't 
it?" 

Huncote  did  not  reply ;  he  was  still  young  enough  to 
believe  it  was  generally  the  man's  fault,  and  that  upset 
his  argument. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  hardly  know." 

But  already  Elspeth  was  on  him,  hitting  him  again 
and  again  like  a  skilled  boxer  who  has  seen  his  adver- 
sary falter  and  rains  blows  on  him  so  as  to  finish  him. 

"  Of  course  it  is  the  man's  fault.  What  do  I  care 
who  she  was  or  what  she  was  ?  As  if  that  made  any 
difference!  As  if  he  wasn't  responsible  for  his  own 
share  of  insult,  whether  he  was  the  first  or  the  last. 
They  brought  up  that  girl  in  ignorance,  and  they 
brought  him  up  in  knowledge.  D'you  call  that  fair  ? 
D'you  call  that  an  even  match?  And  if  it's  an  even 
match,  who  suffers,  I'll  ask  you?  'Erb  goes  away  to 
brag  of  what  he  has  done,  and  she  stays  behind  to  weep 
for  it.  Why,  even  if  she  has  done  wrong  she  pays  the 
price,  and  he  gets  the  credit;  somebody  ought  to  serve 
'Erb  out,  so  as  to  make  the  balance  fair." 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      61 

This  was  what  he  liked  in  Elspeth :  her  virulence,  her 
pugnacious  energy,  her  hot  championship  of  unworthy 
causes.  She  made  him  feel  so  reasonable,  as  if  his  in- 
tellect were  like  his  hair,  nicely  parted  in  the  middle. 
So  more  temperately  he  tried  to  discuss  the  'Erb  case, 
but  they  had  not  done  with  it  when  at  last  they  entered 
the  High  Street  from  the  other  end.  Elspeth  had  been 
too  public-spirited,  and  she  had  been  laughed  at  because 
it  is  so  difficult  to  be  public-spirited  and  ladylike.  She 
was  still  very  angry  in  the  High  Street,  and  it  was  quite 
a  relief  to  come  across  Flora  who  had  lagged  behind 
her  mother  after  church,  ostensibly  to  buy  stamps  at  the 
tobacconist's.  Flora  looked  charming  in  a  rather  too 
vivid  blue  coat  and  skirt,  with  her  fair  hair  pushed  out 
with  the  pads  of  that  year  under  a  large  black  hat.  She 
chattered  to  Huncote,  having  at  once  read  in  Elspeth's 
eye  a  fury  not  unfamiliar;  the  rector  was  getting 
stouter,  it  seemed,  and,  happy  thought,  his  sermons 
shortened  with  his  breath.  Also  Lady  Alperton  had  a 
visitor  staying  with  her,  who  looked  like  a  soldier  and, 
—  would  you  believe  it,  Elspeth  ?  —  the  Belhus  girls 
have  come  back  all  dressed  alike.  They  always  were 
two  or  three  years  behind  the  fashion,  but  I  didn't  think 
it  was  ten !  And  would  Roger  mind  going  into  the  to- 
bacconist's with  her  because  people  mightn't  know  it 
was  only  stamps. 

But  all  through  the  agreeable  pretty  chatter  of  the 
agreeable  pretty  voice  Elspeth  remained  fiercely  close 
as  if  offended,  and  Huncote  was  glad  when  that  after- 
noon Flora,  on  the  quite  absurd  plea  of  showing  him  a 
new  autotype,  took  him  to  her  bedroom.  He  let  her 
chatter  for  a  long  time  as  she  fluttered  about,  small  and 
light,  rather  lazy,  as  one  watches  a  butterfly  over  a 
flower  bed.  Flora's  bedroom  always  amused  him  be- 
cause it  was  always  so  entirely  Flora.  In  a  sense  she 
was  too  pretty  for  the  setting  which  she  could  conceive ; 
something  much  more  Greenaway  would  have  suited  her 


62    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

fairness,  those  arched  eyebrows  over  the  half-naughty, 
half-childish  grey  eyes,  the  gay  mouth,  and  the  nose, 
small,  impertinent,  that  invited  together  tolerance  and 
censure.  Eoger  always  made  her  a  little  conscious  of 
personal  disorder,  and  so  while  she  talked  she  tried  to 
collect  the  many  letters  which  lay  about  her  writing 
pad.  He  smiled  as  he  watched  her,  for  he  knew  that 
among  them  were  many  tiny  little  compromising  mig 
sives.  Indeed  he  had  to  chaff  her. 

"  Is  that  one  from  Cuthbert  ? "  he  asked.  "  Or  is 
his  name  Gerald  ?  Sorry,  but  I  get  lost  among  your 
romances,  Flora,  so  don't  be  offended  if  it  happens  to 
be  Anthony." 

She  pretended  to  pout  angrily,  but  she  was  delighted. 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous,  Eoger,  you  talk  as  if  I'd  a 
harem !  " 

"  Haven't  you  ?  Now  let  me  see,  let's  go  back  into 
ancient  historjr." 

"  Eoger !  "  cried  Flora,  half  dismayed,  "  don't  do 
that,  it  would  — " 

"  It  would  take  too  long." 

"You  rude  man!  You  seem  to  forget  I'm  only 
twenty." 

"And  experienced.  There  were  four  letters  for 
you,  Flora,  this  morning,  and  only  one  of  them  in  a 
feminine  hand." 

"  All  bills,"  said  Flora  wearily. 

"  Not  even  one  from  Sawbones  Junior  ? "  asked 
Huncote. 

Flora  flushed.  She  had  gone  too  far  in  her  tiny  in- 
trigues. It  was  all  very  well  exchanging  countless 
letters  with  most  of  Eoger's  friends,  and  being  more  or 
less  engaged  to  half  her  dancing  partners,  but  Sawbones 
Junior,  in  other  words  the  doctor's  son,  not  favoured  at 
the  house,  was  a  grievance.  She  did  not  care  for  the 
doctor's  son  —  well,  he  was  rather  nice  —  but  she  might 
if  they  went  on  worrying  her  about  him,  and  that  would 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      63 

be  quite  dreadful,  she  felt,  for  it  would  stop  all  the  fun. 
So  she  said,  very  stately: 

"  I  haven't  seen  him  for  a  long  time.  One  never 
does  see  anybody  here,  Koger,"  she  added  woefully. 
"  There's  simply  nothing  to  do." 

"  Isn't  there  ?  "  asked  Huncote.  "  Why,  whenever 
I'm  down  you  never  seem  to  have  a  minute,  what  with 
tennis,  croquet,  and  acrostic  teas !  " 

"Pooh!"  said  Flora  disdainfully.  "That's  only 
passing  the  time  away ;  that's  not  what  I  call  having  a 
good  time.  I  had  thought — "  She  stopped  and 
looked  melancholic. 

"  What  had  you  thought  ?  "  asked  Huncote,  curious  to 
know  what  desire  lurked  in  that  little  brain. 

"  Oh,  all  sorts  of  things  about  you,  Koger,  you  see. 
I  didn't  think  you'd  —  you'd  — " 

"  Go  to  the  bad  like  this." 

"  I  don't  think  you've  gone  to  the  bad  or  anything 
silly  like  that,  only  the  other  men  I  know  —  I  thought 
you'd  do  something,  Roger,  and  then  —  well,  you'd 
have  been  about  town,  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Oh,"  said  Roger,  "  I  understand,  you  mean  I  ought 
to  have  had  a  flat  in  St.  James's,  something  smart 
though  virtuous,  where  you  could  have  come  to  stay  now 
and  then  ?  And  we  could  have  gone  to  the  theatre 
every  night,  with  a  different  man  on  the  other  side  of 
you,  and  to  supper  at  Romano's." 

Flora  did  not  smile ;  she  had  a  sense  of  humour,  but 
her  own  affairs  were  too  important  to  be  laughed  at. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  raptly ;  "  wouldn't  it  have  been 
lovely?" 

Huncote  had  to  laugh  at  the  pretty  seriousness. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said,  "  you  must  come  up  now 
and  then  all  the  same  and  stay  with  me  in  Clare  Street." 

Flora  looked  at  him  dubiously. 

"  Of  course  I  will.  But  tell  me,  are  they  dreadfully 
good  at  the  Settlement  ? " 


64:     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  I  can't  tell  you  yet,"  said  Huncote,  "  but  I'll  en- 
quire for  the  bad  egg,  and  when  you  come  up  you  and 
the  bad  egg  and  I,  and  somebody  to  keep  me  out  of  the 
way,  shall  visit  the  gilded  haunts  of  vice  in  London." 

"  Don't  be  absurd !  "  Still  she  smiled  and  looked 
pleased  as  if  the  word  "  London "  cheered  her  up. 
Flora  hated  St.  Olaves  and  apart  from  her  minor  amor- 
ous correspondence  lived  only  for  those  six  weeks  in 
the  season  which  she,  with  her  mother  and  Elspeth, 
passed  every  year  at  Black's  Hotel.  She  did  what  she 
could:  she  collected  china  pigs,  scores  of  them,  on  her 
mantelpiece;  she  filed  all  her  theatre  programmes, 
which  she  read  on  rainy  days,  in  a  large  untidy  drawer 
with  many  photographs,  broken  fans,  and  the  ribbons 
from  her  underclothes  which  she  seldom  threw  away 
because  somehow  she  liked  a  mess. 

Just  before  he  left  the  room  Huncote  went  up  to  his 
sister,  took  in  his  hand  the  pointed  chin,  and  looked  at 
her  for  a  moment,  humorously,  compassionately,  and  a 
little  disdainfully.  She  looked  at  him  with  a  pucker- 
ing smile  on  her  lips  and  a  rather  arch  look  in  her  eyes 
as  if  she  had  to  flirt  even  with  her  brother.  And  when 
he  kissed  her  quickly  on  her  plump  round  cheek  she 
laughed  and  murmured: 

"  You  really  will  let  me  come  and  stay,  won't  you  ?  " 


Huncote  was  thinking  of  all  of  them  the  next  day  as 
he  went  back  to  town.  They  blended  together  into  a 
sort  of  patchwork  quilt  of  family  emotions:  his 
mother's  untidy,  half-humorous  charm,  Elspeth's  nar- 
rowness, and  Flora's  fluffy  preoccupations;  all  these 
things  seemed  to  correspond  so  ill  with  the  life  he  was 
leading  and  wanted  to  lead.  He  was  like  a  kitten  that 
has  escaped  for  a  few  days  from  its  basket  into  the 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      65 

world  and  judges  its  mother.  Most  marked  was  this 
attitude  when  he  was  in  the  Settlement  itself.  He  re- 
turned there,  it  seemed,  as  directly  as  a  pigeon,  as  if 
indeed  it  were  home ;  he  just  took  time  to  drop  his  bag 
in  his  frowsy  rooms,  for,  of  course,  the  landlady  had 
kept  the  windows  shut  during  the  week-end;  then  he 
was  in  the  St.  Panwich  High  Street  with  jolly  trams 
roaring  on  their  way  to  Penton  Town.  Near  a  corner 
of  the  asphalted  playground  he  could  hear  the  Clare 
Street  schoolchildren,  and  he  liked  the  clatter  of  their 
little  hobnailed  boots.  The  Settlement  opened  before 
him,  with  its  big  white  staircase  so  clean,  and  the  long 
white-painted  corridors  that  seemed  monastic,  with  of- 
fices that  might  have  been  cells,  lecture  rooms  where 
the  chapter  should  have  sat,  for  this  was  the  St.  Pan- 
wich Lay  Settlement,  with  emphasis  on  the  "  Lay  ",  an 
agnostic  cloister..  There  was  nothing  ecclesiastic  about 
its  constitution,  and  indeed  it  rebelled  so  vigorously 
against  the  theistic  idea  that  the  clergy  were  only  tol- 
erated and  then  had  to  be  balanced,  when  admitted,  by 
clergy  of  other  denominations:  a  sort  of  clerical  chem- 
istry, the  Roman  Catholic  and  the  Presbyterian  figur- 
ing like  soda  and  sulphuric  acid  to  neutralize  each 
other.  It  was  assumed  that  the  result  of  the  operation 
would  be,  if  not  beneficial,  at  least  innocuous. 

If  Huncote  had  been  fit  to  understand  anything, 
which  he  was  not  yet  (and  if  he  had  understood  every- 
thing he  would  probably  have  done  nothing,  having 
learnt  all  that  life  has  to  teach),  he  would  have  seen 
that  the  Settlement,  like  most  organisations,  expressed 
itself  in  its  secretary.  He  might  have  wondered 
whether  the  organisation  moulded  the  man  or  the  man 
the  organisation,  or  whether  secretaries  were  nominated 
in  heaven.  Certainly  Churton,  with  whom  he  talked, 
represented  the  Settlement  as  if  he  had  been  conceived 
not  in  sin  but  in  dedication.  He  was  several  years 
older  than  Huncote;  he  was  a  third-year  man  at 


66     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Gabriel  when  Huncote  was  a  freshman,  and  in  those 
days  was  a  tall  young  man  with  the  blackest  hair  and 
dark  brown  eyes,  rather  close-set  and,  like  Huncote's, 
fanatical ;  but  there  was  a  quality  of  failure  already  in 
the  long  uneven  sharpness  of  his  enquiring  nose. 
There  was  narrowness  too  in  the  sallow  cheeks  from 
which  grew  a  very  strong  black  beard  that  he  shaved  so 
close  as  to  make  them  look  green.  In  those  days  he 
intended  to  take  orders,  and  why  he  never  took  orders, 
why  he  failed  even  to  get  a  pass,  why  he  was  not 
pushed  further  on  the  clerical  path,  nobody  knew. 
Possibly  he  had  rebelled,  for  he  had  money,  though 
very  little ;  he  had  a  hundred  a  year  of  his  own,  in  fact 
he  had  been  born  with  an  electro-plated  spoon  in  his 
mouth.  Or  very  likely  the  Settlement  had  appealed  to 
him  because  it  satisfied  some  inner  need  for  association 
with  something  organised.  Churton  respected  organi- 
sation and  had  automatically  become  the  servant  of  an 
organisation.  It  was  open  to  question  whether  he 
would  not  have  served  equally  well  the  Free  Trade 
Union  or  the  Tariff  Reform  League ;  one  could  imagine 
him  faithful  to  any  grouping,  and  indeed  in  any  atti- 
tude save  alone  and  palely  loitering. 

When  Huncote  came  in  Churton  was  at  the  tele- 
phone, the  end  of  his  long  nose  resting  on  the  receiver. 
Huncote  listened  respectfully,  looking  at  little  things 
in  the  important  office:  files,  account-books,  scales,  and 
punches,  and  the  largest  stone  bottle  of  ink  he  had  ever 
seen.  Churton  had  given  him  a  friendly  nod,  but  he 
looked  worried. 

"  I  haven't  made  it  clear,"  he  telephoned  worriedly. 
"  Please  let  me  explain  again ;  it's  my  fault."  There 
was  a  pause  during  which  the  person  at  the  other  end 
prevented  him  from  explaining.  "  ISTo,  no,"  cried 
Churton,  rather  desperately,  "  it's  against  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  Settlement ;  we  can't  allow  any  intrusion  — 
Qh!  I  didn't  mean  to  put  it  like  that,  only  I  do  want 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      67 

to  make  it  clear  —  our  propaganda  is  not  religious. 
Oh."  A  pause.  "  Then  really  I'm  very  sorry." 
Pause.  "Certainly  not"  (rather  acid  this),  "you've 
no  right  to  say  such  a  thing."  There  was  another 
pause,  and  then  the  receiver  came  down  rather  sharply. 

"  Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !  "  said  Churton,  "  this  sort 
of  thing  happens  every  other  day." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Huncote  sympathetically. 

"  It's  a,  nonconformist  minister  at  the  other  end,  and 
he  wants  to  lecture  to  us  on  the  cathedrals  of  Northern 
Spain,  provided  we  allow  him  to  use  that  as  a  text  for 
an  onslaught  on  Romanism,  or  was  it  Popery  he  called 
it?" 

Huncote  laughed  at  the  woebegone  dark  face. 

"  It  sounded  as  if  you  were  saying  no." 

"  I  should  rather  think  I  was !  What  would  our 
Irishmen  say  if  I  let  the  Christian  pride  of  Highbury 
loose  on  them  ?  You  know,  Huncote,  sometimes  I  wish 
I'd  gone  into  something  definite,  something  with  a 
really  religious  label.  You  know  where  you  are,  for 
everybody  else  is  damned;  but  in  our  position,  being 
kindly  laymen,  the  only  thing  that  seems  to  happen  is 
that  it's  we  who  are  damned  because  we  have  no  special 
brand  of  salvation." 

Huncote  looked  thoughtful  for  a  moment. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  see  what  you  mean.  You  mean 
that  every  minister  thinks  this  place  must  have  a  re- 
ligion of  some  kind.  They  can't  conceive  undenomina- 
tional good  will,  can  they  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Churton  bitterly,  "  I've  been  here  twelve 
months,  and  if  I  stay  here  five  years  it's  Christian  good 
will  I'll  begin  to  doubt." 

Then  the  telephone  rang  again,  and  Churton  was  in- 
volved in  a  long  argument  with  the  printer  who  had 
set  up  a  begging  appeal  from  the  wrong  font.  When 
Churton  had  done  he  returned  to  Huncote  with  a  more 
busy  and  preoccupied  air,  as  if  commercial  grace  had 


68     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

expelled  the  theological.  They  had  to  talk  of  the  con- 
cert at  which  Huncote  was  to  play  that  night.  Before 
Churton  could  find  the  programme  the  boy  came  in  to 
say  that  the  architect  was  waiting  with  the  scheme  for 
the  new  east-side  gullies.  The  architect  was  told  to 
wait  a  moment.  And  when  Churton  found  the  pro- 
gramme and  the  name  of  the  accompanist,  so  that  Hun- 
cote  might  arrange  with  her  what  pieces  he  would  play, 
there  was  another  telephone  call.  Huncote's  business 
was  done,  but  he  stayed  some  minutes  in  the  office,  every 
minute  more  admiring,  for  Churton  seemed  to  have  well 
in  hand  the  reins  of  his  organisation.  People  rang 
him  up  to  ask  at  what  time  things  happened,  and  he 
knew ;  he  signed  a  number  of  cheques  which  the  cashier 
laid  before  him,  at  the  same  time  briskly  discussing 
with  the  cook  what  substitute  they  should  have  that 
night  for  shrimp  paste,  as  that  had  been  vetoed  by  the 
Kitchen  Committee  on  the  ground  of  expense.  He  was 
marvellous,  and  every  moment  Huncote  grew  more 
humble. 

Humility  was  still  upon  him  a  little  later  when 
lunching  at  Prince's  with  a  man  who  had  come  down  at 
the  same  time  as  he  did,  and  the  man's  sister  and 
mother.  Huncote  ought  to  have  noticed  the  mat-white- 
ness of  the  girl  and  the  purple  shadows  that  made  her 
eyes  seem  deep,  so  long  were  the  curling  eyelashes,  but 
he  was  too  excited  by  the  vigour  and  capacity  of  the 
Settlement  to  which  he  had  given  himself.  He  knew 
he  was  being  a  bore,  and  yet  he  had  to  talk  about  it, 
about  their  programme,  their  building,  and  their  hopes. 
They  laughed  at  him,  thought  him  very  young  and 
earnest ;  they  liked  him,  they  were  vaguely  amused  and 
yet  vaguely  bored.  But  he  hardly  noticed,  and  even  a 
little  later,  when  he  stood  in  Piccadilly  Circus  and  saw 
crawling  towards  him  the  patchy  colour  of  the  motor- 
buses,  like  an  undulating  harlequin's  robe,  he  was  still 
in  the  thrall  of  this  big  living  thing,  the  Settlement 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      69 

which,  his  humour  gone,  he  half-believed  would  re- 
generate the  world. 

That  night  the  concert  strengthened  his  enthusiasm; 
though  it  was  very  like  any  other  concert  it  was  the  one 
he  would  always  remember  just  because  it  was  his  first. 
He  had  a  large  mixed  audience  in  the  big  lecture  room ; 
many  women,  a  fair  number  of  men,  a  rather  rowdy, 
boot-scraping  audience,  an  audience  that  grew  more 
cheerful  a's  time  went  on  and  clapped  each  piece  with 
perfect  impartiality  and  some  violence.  It  was  with  a 
beating  heart  that  Huncote  played  his  two  pieces,  care- 
fully selected  with  the  inevitable  Churton's  concur- 
rence :  "  Thais  "  in  the  first  part  and,  in  the  second,  a 
berceuse.  He  was  not  nervous,  for  he  had  played  be- 
fore to  amateur  audiences,  but  he  cared  most  for  what 
he  saw  when  he  was  not  playing,  when  he  was  less  con- 
sciously linked  with  these  people.  One  thing  he  knew : 
he  liked  them,  liked  them  quite  violently,  all  of  them ; 
he  liked  the  old  women  in  their  bonnets,  the  men  who 
sprawled  against  the  back  wall  as  much  as  the  men  who 
sat  at  attention  in  the  front  row  (where  they  had  been 
put  by  force).  And  most  of  all  he  liked  the  absence  of 
any  clerical  influence ;  there  was  no  address  and  no  col- 
lection; there  were  no  texts  upon  the  wall,  unless  a 
quotation  from  Ruskin  and  another  from  William  Mor- 
ris served  as  such.  At  the  end  the  chairman's  speech 
and  the  votes  of  thanks  just  avoided  the  danger.  The 
seconder  of  the  vote  of  thanks  was  a  clergyman  who 
did  make  one  slightly  unfortunate  allusion  in  his  ex- 
pressions of  gratitude,  for  he  extended  them  a  little  be- 
yond the  performers,  but  apparently  the  audience  did 
not  mind. 

It  was  indeed  a  fine  jolly  audience,  Huncote  found, 
when  he  came  to  know  it  a  little  better  after  the  concert, 
and  tea  and  coffee  were  served  in  the  refectory  behind. 
He  was  determined  to  be  easy,  he  was  determined  to 
help ;  he  resolutely  talked  to  two  of  the  men,  for  he  was 


70     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

afraid  of  the  girls  who  sat  in  clumps,  far  from  the  men, 
and  nudged  each  other  and  looked  at  him  and  tittered. 
The  men  embarrassed  him  a  little  less,  but  they  carried 
with  them  the  smells  of  their  trades,  smells  of  metal 
and  leather  mixed  with  sweat;  one  man  he  liked,  but 
the  other,  whom  Huncote  innocently  thought  he  had 
picked  but  who  had  in  reality  picked  him,  was  Joe 
Beesby.  Joe  Beesby  was  very  short,  extremely  fat, 
and  upon  his  round,  bald  head  had  erected  a  cap  which 
would  have  fitted  a  little  boy  of  six;  he  maintained  an 
intense  gravity  due  to  small  eyes  which  never  moved 
from  the  victim  they  fascinated,  which  was  a  pity,  as 
Beesby  had  a  grievance.  It  was  a  complicated  griev- 
ance. His  eldest  son  had  been  arrested  on  a  charge  of 
which  he  was  acquitted  after  two  months'  preventive  de- 
tention. During  that  time  his  tools  were  kept  at  the 
police  station.  On  the  day  he  came  out  young  Beesby, 
forgetting  all  about  his  tools,  celebrated  the  occasion  by 
getting  so  drunk  that  he  was  sentenced  to  fourteen  days 
or  a  fine  of  two  pounds.  Then  he  remembered  his 
tools. 

"  So  wot  did  'e  do,  sir  ?  'E  said  to  the  beak,  '  Wot 
abaht  me  tools  ? '  'e  said.  '  You  gi'  me  back  me  tools, 
and  I  giv  yer  yer  two  pouns.'  An'  wot  d'yer  think  the 
beak  said  ?  '  You  giv  me  me  two  pouns  first.'  When 
'Q  come  out  o'  quod  the  tools  was  rusted,  done  for." 
Beesby's  eyes  grew  as  keen  as  drills.  He  argued  his 
son's  case,  then  the  beak's  case.  He  became  pathetic. 
"  I  arsk  yer,  sir,  d'yer  call  it  fair  ?  " 

Huncote  got  very  involved  in  this  conversation,  for 
he  could  not  discover  whether  the  tools  had  been  ac- 
cepted as  security  by  the  relentless  beak.  Moreover, 
Beesby  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  telling  the 
story  except  in  the  way  he  chose,  and  it  went  on  inter- 
minably ;  it  went  on  as  to  what  the  beak  had  said,  and 
what  that  dirty  tyke,  the  sergeant,  had  said,  and  what 
young  Beesby  had  said  (and  him  not  accountable  after 


THE  PEACE  OF  ST.  OLAVES      71 

going  on  the  booze).  Huncote  found  himself  growing 
quite  hot  as  the  Beesby  drama  slowly  extended,  quali- 
fied, parenthetic,  reminiscent,  discursive,  into  a  full  ac- 
count of  the  accident  to  Beesby's  uncle  John  when  he 
tried  to  get  a  bath  up  the  stairs.  Huncote  was  not  yet 
used  to  talking  to  the  class  that  he  wanted  to  raise. 
Still  he  had  to  talk  to  Beesby;  everybody  at  the  Settle- 
ment had  to  listen  to  the  Beesby  story  once  (and,  if 
one  was  not  careful,  more  often).  And  so  the  evening 
wore  on ;  he  talked  to  many  other  people,  to  young  men 
who  were  aggressively  friendly  and  who  nearly  dug  him 
in  the  waistcoat  to  show  him  that  this  was  democracy 
and  they  were  all  pals,  also  to  young  men  who  called 
him  "  sir  "  and  grew  very  hot  about  the  ears  when  he 
looked  at  them,  because  they  could  not  realise  that  this 
was  democracy  and  they  were  all  pals.  There  were 
women  too  who  flitted  about  him  trying  to  smooth  the 
helper's  path,  some  little  hard-knit  persons  with  mouths 
like  purse  fasteners,  and  a  rather  tall,  gracious  dark 
girl,  called  Miss  Underwood,  he  thought,  whom  he  liked 
to  see  with  several  fat  girls  from  the  pickle  factory 
around  her,  looking  rather  lost  and  vaguely  ironic. 

He  was  not  very  conscious  of  anybody  individually, 
but  rather  of  talk  that  began  in  a  buzz  and  rose  to  a 
rumble,  ending  in  a  roar  and  mixed  continually  with 
the  rattle  of  teacups  and  the  clink  of  spoons,  a  rather 
confused  impression  of  everything  being  too  hot  and 
dusty,  but  still  wonderfully  pleasing.  When  at  last 
he  regained  Clare  Street  and  his  bed,  a  bed  which  would 
have  interested  St.  Lawrence,  he  was  glowing  all  over 
with  some  inner  satisfaction;  he  had  been  close  to  the 
poor  and  almost  had  found  them  fair. 


CHAPTER  THE  FOURTH 

THE  WINGS  OF  UTOPIA 


Two  months  had  elapsed.  It  was  January.  By  turn- 
ing his  head  a  little  Huncote  could  see  through  the  win- 
dow the  light  fall  of  snow  which  had  suddenly  ethereal- 
ised  the  grim  little  houses  in  the  side  street.  Here  was 
silence  absolute,  as  if  indeed  this  were  the  Arctic,  and 
in  the  St.  Panwich  High  Street  the  rising  and  falling 
rumble  of  the  trams.  For  a  time  he  watched  the  lost 
snowflakes  falling  and  thought,  with  a  half  smile,  of 
Blake,  of  the  mystic  swans  in  the  far  blue  shaking  their 
fleecy  wings.  He  was  not  unhappy  in  the  melancholic 
day,  for  was  he  not  here,  all  alone,  in  a  bright  office? 
A  Helper?  Established?  Was  he  not  performing  a 
function  ?  Would  there  not  be  a  hitch  in  the  social  ma- 
chine for  a  second  perhaps,  but  still  a  second,  if  he  were 
to  disappear?  He  bit  his  pen,  pushing  aside  the  ex- 
ceedingly greasy  testimonials  which  lay  before  him,  as 
if  the  silent  snow  made  him  reflective.  There  had  been 
changes  in  these  two  months ;  he  had,  it  seemed,  under- 
stood the  Settlement  quite  well,  its  desire,  by  song, 
dance,  lecture,  to  civilise  the  people,  to  humanise  them 
a  little  by  offering  them  some  pleasure  other  than  drink 
and  lust.  Also  he  had  given  it  all  his  time,  and  so  he 
had  risen  in  the  lay-order  until  now  he  was  a  sort  of 
extension  of  the  organised  Churton,  able  to  draw  out  an 
appeal,  to  select  music,  and  even  to  cope  with  the  un- 
pleasant Mrs.  Bubwith  in  the  High  Street  where  chairs 
were  now  and  then  hired.  The  great  machine  of  paper, 
tea  (or  coffee),  and  good  intentions  moved  readily 


THE  WINGS  OF  UTOPIA         73 

enough  under  his  hand.  He  even  knew  the  way  along 
the  corridors,  could,  when  he  wanted,  find  the  lecture  sec- 
retary, the  lantern-slide  room,  the  envelope-addressing 
hall,  the  various  activities  that  flitted  about  the  social 
surface  like  water-spiders  on  a  pool.  Yes,  he  was  doing 
something,  brightening  the  world;  this  was  life,  this 
was  the  life.  He  bent  down  once  more  to  the  testimo- 
nials; he  rang  a  bell  and  a  little  lay-acolyte,  whom  in 
his  mind  he  called  "  face  of  a  thousand  pimples ", 
showed  in  one  of  his  visitors. 

It  was  Old  Gartly,  some  time  a  master  plumber,  now 
Old  Gartly,  a  jobbing  plumber.  Huncote  had  not  yet 
learnt  to  speak  first,  so  Old  Gartly  was  on  him  protest- 
ing that  he  was  entirely  sober,  had  always  been  sober. 

"  Only,"  he  said,  "  one  can't  get  no  more  work." 

Huncote  looked  at  him,  rather  embarrassed:  the  old 
man  was  sixty  or  so,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  that  he  had 
been  a  master  in  a  small  way:  the  ranks  of  industry 
reject  those  who  once  were  commissioned. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  rather  doubtfully,  "  it  would  be 
rather  difficult  to  get  you  into  a  shop." 

"  It  ain't  as  if  I  'adn't  always  been  sober,"  Old 
Gartly  obstinately  went  on.  "  Most  o'  the  chaps  what 
goes  wrong  does  it  all  along  the  drink.  Now,  sir,  I've 
always  kep'  mesel'  respectable,  I've  always  kep'  mesel' 
sober  .  .  ." 

He  unwound  endlessly  the  record  of  his  sobriety. 
Huncote  suddenly  stared  at  him.  Somehow  he  sus- 
pected the  man's  sobriety:  he  did  not  yet  know  the  re- 
spectable type  of  artisan  to  which  Old  Gartly  belonged, 
who  has  kept  himself  sober,  abominably  and  painfully 
sober  in  the  face  of  his  desire,  and  who  flies  the  flag  of 
martyrdom.  Old  Gartly  had  been  quite,  quite  sober, 
and  he  was  so  powerfully  conscious  of  it  that  Huncote 
thought  he  was  drunk.  "  But,"  he  thought,  "  I  mustn't 
let  that  influence  me.  I'm  not  here  to  judge  but  to 
help." 


74    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

So,  unjust  and  well-meaning,  he  cut  through  the  old 
man's  protestations,  noted  what  jobbing  he  could  do, 
originated  the  brilliant  idea  of  printing  circulars  for 
him  which  he  could  distribute  himself  all  round  his 
own  district  and  then  sent  him  away.  He  rang  the  bell 
for  the  acolyte,  smiling  half -sorrowfully  at  Old  Gartly 
who  had  put  his  head  in  again  to  ask  whether  he  had 
put  "  teetotaler  "  on  the  circulars. 

The  morning  passed  on,  varied  and  yet  much  the  same, 
for  all  cases,  though  different  in  detail,  were  of  the  same 
type.  He  promised  a  seamstress  to  redeem  her  sewing- 
machine,  and  as  she  had  been  ill,  appointed  her  to  look 
after  his  linen  which,  after  two  months  with  the  local 
laundry  and  the  Clare  Street  landlady,  was  making 
urgent  charity  of  some  kind.  He  promised  an  enter- 
prising youth  to  find  out  how  he  could  become  president 
of  the  Institute  of  Mining  Engineers  and  secured  him 
for  the  night  classes  on  electricity.  Churton  ran  in 
for  a  moment,  alert  and  paper-laden,  dragging  a  portly 
woman  who  apparently  wanted  employment  in  the  in- 
tervals of  having  babies,  who  happened  often.  But 
Huncote  was  not  very  successful  here,  because  mater- 
nity had  become  an  obsession  in  this  case;  her  state- 
ment developed  by  degrees  into  a  dirge  on  the  fate  of 
women  who  generally  have  twins  and  might,  if  fate 
were  unkind,  prove  yet  more  prolific.  It  was  queer 
and  interesting,  this  employment  business;  every  case 
seemed  to  show  him  something  more  of  the  complica- 
tions of  a  social  system  into  which  he  had  been  thrown 
without  ever  having  been  told  why  it  had  been  created 
or  how.  He  was  meeting  -mainly  the  unemployable, 
those  who  were  not  strong  enough  and  those  who  were 
too  old,  and  it  occurred  to  him  now  and  then  to  wonder 
why  society  would  neither  kill  these  people  nor  feed 
them.  Use  them  it  could  not  except  at  its  own  terms, 
which  meant  such  terms  as  would  by  under-cutting 
slowly  reduce  the  employable  to  the  unemployable  level. 


THE  WINGS  OF  UTOPIA          75 

It  was  depressing  in  a  way,  this  procession  of  the  for- 
gotten, so  anxious  all  of  them  to  maintain  life  not  for 
their  own  pleasure,  but  as  a  sort  of  offertory  to  the  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation. 

It  was  a  heavy  morning:  he  had  seen  many  peo- 
ple, heard  many  rambling  conversations  out  of  which 
uncles,  aunts,  and  stomachic  disturbances  could  not 
be  kept.  His  machine  had  rumbled  on,  creaking;  he 
had  done  something,  and  he  glowed,  for  it  did  not  yet 
strike  him  that  he  would  have  to  do  the  same  something 
again  to-morrow,  and  yet  again.  He  stretched  him- 
self, he  felt  pleased;  he  thought  he  would  lunch  at 
his  club. 

Such  a  quick  change,  this  run  in  the  tube  from  St. 
Panwich  to  Piccadilly.  Somehow  of  late  he  had  not 
liked  Piccadilly;  it  made  him  remorseful,  and  he  was 
not  quite  sure  that  it  would  not  be  a  good  thing  if  one 
could  blow  up  Piccadilly:  he  had  not  yet  thought  of 
blowing  up  St.  Panwich.  But  now  he  liked  going  to 
his  club,  for  during  the  last  week  he  had  watched  over 
Toy,  one  of  his  good  works.  Toy  was  a  waiter  who 
one  day  appeared  at  the  Settlement  with  a  rambling 
tale  of  stewardships  on  steamboats  and  of  gallantry  in 
the  South  African  War.  He  was  proud  of  a  suit  of 
evening  clothes  pea-green  at  the  seams.  He  was  won- 
derfully voluble,  and  most  of  his  references  had  been 
lost  in  the  wreck  of  a  steamer  which  was  sometimes  the 
Orontes  and  sometimes  the  Omara.  Huncote  was  half- 
amused,  half -sceptical.  He  did  not  quite  know  what  to 
do  with  a  waiter  whose  accent  was  neither  German  nor 
Italian.,  He  half  thought  of  handing  him  over  to  Miss 
Miskin  who  had  nothing  to  do  just  then.  Miss  Miskin 
was  not  favourable. 

"  You're  the  employment  agent,"  she  said  acidly. 
"  You  don't  want  me  to  set  him  to  needlework,  do 
you?" 

Huncote  mumbled  something  about  work  at  private 


T6     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

dinners,  for  Miss  Miskin  was  a  rich  old  maid,  frequent- 
ing the  bulky  dinners  of  city  friends. 

"  Pooh ! "  said  Miss  Miskin,  and  added  various 
sounds  that  were  neither  civil  nor  kind;  looking  more 
than  usual  like  a  hysterical  wet  lizard  she  left  him  the 
care  of  Toy.  And  Toy,  who  has  large  cheeks  and  thin 
legs,  red  hair,  a  watery  eye,  and  something  of  the  bed- 
side manner  of  a  fashionable  doctor  broadened  by  the 
barrack-room,  began  siege  operations  on  Huncote's 
room.  He  appeared  every  morning  regularly,  always 
carrying  his  evening  clothes  in  a  brown-paper  parcel, 
inclined  to  expose  the  scandalous  way  in  which  other 
soldiers  had  behaved  in  Kaffir  kraals ;  every  moment  he 
threatened  to  show  Huncote  the  excellent  evening 
clothes.  In  the  end  Huncote  found  him  a  place  in  the 
kitchen  of  his  club.  So  he  liked  to  go  down  now  and 
then  and  ask  the  steward  how  the  good  work  was  pro- 
gressing. 

He  did.  But  Toy  was  to  count  no  more  in  the 
kitchen  of  the  august  club ;  he  was  always  sober  in  the 
morning  but  not  so,  the  club  found,  at  night ;  in  an  un- 
fortunate fit  of  exultation  he  had  poured  half  a  pound 
of  sugar  instead  of  salt  into  the  soup. 

II 

Huncote  was  almost  blind  to  the  implications  of  this 
work,  blind  to  the  endlessness  of  it.  Indeed  now  and 
then  he  was  inflamed  by  the  idea  of  linking  material 
advantage  with  mental  progress.  These  men  and 
women  who  came  in,  asking  him  to  help  them,  were  not 
lost.  They  found,  he  thought,  a  sort  of  home  in  the 
Settlement;  they  took  with  their  job  such  culture  as  it 
could  give  them  of  nights.  Now  and  then  he  had  a 
vision  of  St.  Panwich  Lay  Settlement  as  a  beneficent 
mother  hanging  over  the  people,  a  comforter  promising 
them  better  things  than  even  it  gave  them.  But  he  was 


THE  WINGS  OF  UTOPIA          77 

discovering  other  factors,  exterior  movements  that  com- 
peted witl\  the  Settlement  as  if  they  grudged  it  the  re- 
lief of  misery  because  it  did  not  relieve  in  what  the 
other  movements  considered  the  right  way.  There 
seemed  especially  to  be  continual  friction  between  the 
Settlement  and  the  clerical  organisations  of  St.  Pan- 
wich.  Once  upon  a  time  there  had  been  a  war  between 
the  local  vicars  and  the  intruding  agnostics;  that  was 
over,  but  now  and  then  a  sort  of  guerilla  warfare  sprang 
up;  there  were  allusions  in  the  parish  magazine  to  the 
superiority  of  faith  over  works;  a  few  powerful 
churches  had  also  a  way  of  selecting  rather  late  for 
their  entertainments  the  same  nights  as  those  of  the 
Settlement  and  then  seducing  a  part  of  the  Settlement 
audiences  by  getting  their  entertainments  deeply  inter- 
twined with  the  coal  and  blanket  clubs.  There  was 
also  Lady  Govan's  Education  League  with  which  rela- 
tions were  exceedingly  complicated,  because  Mr.  Platt, 
of  the  Temple  Club,  was  a  member  of  the  Settlement 
Committee,  and  made  it  his  aim  in  life  to  become  Lib- 
eral member  for  St.  Panwich  in  succession  to  the 
Unionist,  Sir  Henry  Govan.  And  Lady  Govan  was 
quite  formidable:  it  was  not  that  she  did  everything 
that  was  necessary;  she  did  everything  that  was  neces- 
sary and  hundreds  of  things  which  were  not :  these  ad- 
vertised her  league  most  destructively  by  compare  with 
the  milder  activities  of  the  Settlement. 

Huncote  was  still  too  young  and  inexperienced  to  be 
tempted  into  these  deeper  politics,  but  hints  had  fallen 
in  conversation  from  Platt,  from  Churton  himself. 
Indeed  the  only  man  who  never  laid  stress  upon  these 
mysteries  of  altruistic  competition  was  the  Reverend 
William  Ford.  Huncote  might  never  have  come  across 
Ford  had  it  not  been  for  these  complicated  competi- 
tions. But  towards  the  end  of  June  a  free  advertisement 
was  given  Ford  by  Pastor  Walkley,  known  as  the  great 
exhorter,  who  had  come  over  from  Australia  to  wrestle 


78     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

for  St.  Panwick's  soul.  Huncote  accidentally  drifted 
into  the  chapel  where  the  pastor  was  received  as  he 
went  on  some  Settlement  business  close  by.  He  spent 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  crowded  long  hall 
which  was  packed,  gangways  and  all,  by  a  dark  crowd 
quietly  moved  to  intensity;  one  could  hear  it  breathe, 
and  it  seemed'  to  rise  a  little  towards  the  orator's 
periods.  Pastor  Walkley  was  a  tall,  large  man,  the 
typical  "  elder ",  with  tufts  of  white  hair  brushed 
straight  away  from  his  head  over  his  ears,  a  large  un- 
trimmed  beard,  and  a  shaven  upper  lip  that  seemed  im- 
mensely long  under  the  wide  pugnacious  nose.  The 
pastor  had  the  largest  blue  eyes,  that  looked  rather  as 
if  they  had  been  boiled,  and  he  talked  endlessly  of  the 
thunders  of  the  Bible,  stains  and  dishonours,  and  hells 
and  defilements;  he  boomed  on  drink  and  eternal  tor- 
ture .  .  . 

But  what  struck  Huncote  was  that  he  had  picked  out 
for  special  attack  the  Eeverend  William  Ford,  who 
with  his  boxing  class,  it  seemed,  was  the  pillar  of  bru- 
tality in  the  district,  who  spat  upon  the  steps  of  the 
Temple  of  the  Lord.  Then  Huncote  realised  that  he 
had  not  visited  every  section  of  the  Settlement.  He 
had  heard  of  William  Ford,  the  Fighting  Parson,  or 
Fighting  Bill,  but  he  had  never  seen  him  at  work. 

And  a  great  voice  boomed  from  the  pulpit  denunci- 
ations of  mortal  sin,  threatenings  of  everlasting  agony, 
begging  his  audience,  ere  it  was  too  late,  to  come  "  intoe 
the  boosum  of  A-Bra-Ham."  It  followed  him,  he 
thought,  right  into  the  street.  It  seemed  to  drive  him 
out  into  the  night  of  beer  and  blood  that  is  London. 
There  was  no  fear  in  Roger  Huncote,  and  because  there 
was  no  fear  Pastor  Walkley  could  not  save  him,  could 
not  draw  him  shrinking  and  reluctant  "  intoe  the 
Boosum  of  A-Bra-Ham." 

Far  from  it.  As  if  the  pastor  by  denouncing  it  had 
advertised  sin  he  drove  Huncote  straight  .on  to  the  Set- 


THE  WINGS  OF  UTOPIA          ?9 

tlement,  where  fortunately  the  Fighting  Parson  was 
having  his  night. 

He  was, a  blot  on  the  Settlement  in  a  way;  the  egg 
of  a  religious  cuckoo  in  an  agnostic  nest.  But  then, 
through  wanting  to,  or  perhaps  because  it  had  opened 
its  doors  to  him,  Fighting  Bill  had  punched  and 
smacked  his  way  in  as  if  conscious  that  in  this  lay  fold 
were  young  souls  whom  it  was  his  mission  to  bring  to 
God  by  sloshes  in  the  jaw.  Besides  it  had  been  almost 
impossible  to  do  without  him,  for  he  had  become  too 
popular  in  St.  Panwich.  He  was  about  twenty-six, 
fair,  curly-headed,  blue-eyed ;  with  his  pink  cheeks  and 
white  skin  he  looked  like  a  jolly  Irish  boy.  Married 
at  twenty-two  he  was  then  additional  curate  to  the  rec- 
tor of  St.  Panwich,  had  four  children,  a  small  wife,  and 
a  colossal  appetite.  For  about  two  months  St.  Panwich 
did  not  notice  him ;  it  had  vaguely  observed  that  where 
the  parson  went  there  was  less  groaning  and  intoning 
than  usual,  but  a  good  deal  of  boisterous  laughter.  It 
might  not  have  mattered  much:  St.  Panwich  was  too 
busy  keeping  alive  to  bother  about  foreign  princes  and 
parsons,  and  other  lunatics,  only  one  night,  outside  a 
public  house,  two  men  in  railwaymen's  uniforms,  who 
had  had  just  enough  and  were  preparing  to  go  in  to  have 
a  little  more,  glared  at  him.  One  of  them  remarked: 
"  Hullo,  sky-pilot !  At  the  earhole  again  ?  " 

The  Reverend  William  Ford  knew  the  slums  and 
their  language;  he  at  once  took  in  the  idiotic  insinu- 
ation that  he  would  report  them  to  the  company  unless 
they  stood  him  a  drink  or  otherwise  bribed  him.  Some- 
thing inside  him  grew  bulky;  still,  he  tried  to  remem- 
ber that  he  was  a  man  of  God. 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  he  said.  "  You  don't  think  I'd 
give  a  man  away !  " 

The  words  were  too  mild;  his  tormentor  nudged  his 
companion.  "  See  him  turn  the  other  cheek,  matey  ? 
Shall  I  spit  in  his  eye  or  will  you  ?  " 


80     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

The  thing  inside  the  Reverend  William  grew  unbear- 
ably large.  Instead  of  walking  away  lest  he  should  be 
defiled  he  came  a  little  nearer.  Then  a  dreadful  thing 
happened,  for  almost  simultaneously  the  second  man 
attempted  to  spit  into  the  Reverend  William's  eye  while 
a  most  untended  and  unclerical  red  fist  struck  him 
straight  in  the  mouth.  This  was  the  beginning  of 
Fighting  Bill's  first  row.  It  was  a  gorgeous  and  won- 
derful row,  for  the  railwayman  was  game  and  for  three 
or  four  minutes  fought  well,  getting  in  a  nasty  one  over 
Ford's  left  eyebrow  that  cut  it  right  open.  But  cru- 
sading blood  was  up.  Ford  danced  about  from  right 
to  left  foot,  sparring,  looking  like  a  wild  crow.  He 
rushed  into  his  opponent's  guard,  broke  it  down,  com- 
pletely bunged  up  one  of  his  eyes,  and  on  recovering 
clinched  in  characteristic  style,  finishing  him  off  at  last 
with  a  most  scientific  uppercut.  He  fought  in  a  sort 
of  mist,  conscious  of  a  growing  crowd  around  him  that 
filled  the  little  side  street,  and  of  muffled  roars  of: 
"  Go  it,  little  'un!  "  and  "  Kill  him,  Parson!  "  Nor 
did  he  recover  when  they  picked  up  his  adversary,  for 
the  first  of  his  opponents  was  still  in  his  mind,  and  he 
was  the  only  thing  he  could  see,  the  thing  he  unerringly 
picked  out  of  the  crowd  and  went  for  like  a  mad  bull. 
There  were  protests;  two  men  tried  to  hold  him. 
"  That'll  do,  Parson,  you've  done  enough." 
Then  a  horrible  thing  happened.  Fighting  Bill 
whirled  them  away,  roaring:  "  Go  to  hell !  "  and  leapt 
on  the  one  they  were  trying  to  protect.  This  proved  a 
still  easier  job  than  the  other,  for  it  seemed  that  the 
powers  of  the  devil,  suddenly  invoked,  joined  the 
gentler  ones  in  the  body  of  Fighting  Bill.  He  had  the 
other  man  down  at  the  first  blow,  which  by  fortune 
rather  than  by  skill  landed  on  the  point.  And  with 
true  Christian  charity  the  Reverend  William  helped  his 
opponent  up  so  as  to  be  able  to  knock  him  down 
again.  .  .  . 


THE  WINGS  OF  UTOPIA         81 

Fighting  Bill  walked  off  famous.  The  police  arrived 
upon  the  scene  thirty  seconds  after  he  left  the  side 
street  with  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyebrow,  and  the 
crowd  refused  to  give  him  away.  Somebody  told  the 
police  that  the  unfortunate  men  had  been  set  upon  by 
four  roughs,  which,  judging  from  their  condition,  was 
quite  possible.  The  story  did  get  about  a  little  later, 
and  the  rector  noticed  that  his  additional  curate  had 
fallen  down-stairs  and  hurt  his  forehead.  The  police 
did  nothing,  but  henceforth  had  a  smile  and  a  salute 
for  the  new  Knight  Templar. 

The  trouble  was  that  the  one  who  had  once  been  Mr. 
Ford  and  swiftly  became  the  Reverend  Bill,  and  within 
his  club  merely  "  Bill  ",  was  now  a  celebrity.  He  had 
to  live  up  to  his  celebrity,  and  as  nobody  believed  he 
was  in  earnest  about  anything  unless  he  hit  them  — 
well,  he  did  hit  them.  He  found  the  taste  growing  on 
him;  he  hung  about  the  worst  parts  of  St.  Panwich 
(they  were  mostly  worst),  looking  for  adventure  near 
the  public  houses.  He  found  it  often  and  made  a  point 
of  celebrating  his  victory  by  compelling  his  victims  to 
attend  the  services  he  took.  There,  in  his  sermons,  he 
made  painful  and  public  allusions  to  their  features  and 
their  temperaments.  He  cured  a  wife-beater  after 
three  applications  of  his  particular  medicine.  For  one 
moment  the  breath  of  scandal  nearly  touched  him  after 
his  defeat  of  Posky  Joe,  the  American  bully. 

No  sooner  had  Ford  driven  Posky  out  of  the  dis- 
trict than  the  girl  on  whose  earnings  he  lived  developed 
for  Fighting  Bill  an  entirely  hopeless  passion;  he 
handed  her  over  to  Mrs.  Ford  who  reformed  her 
morals.  Unable  to  attain  Fighting  Bill  the  girl  at- 
tained goodness:  she  was  seen  a  little  later  with 
her  hair  drawn  up  from  her  forehead  and  an 
unpowdered  nose.  But  at  last  ecclesiastic  power 
interfered.  Fighting  Bill,  who  was  already  a  suspect 
because  he  was  a  high-churchman,  a  socialist,  and 


82     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

a  lover  of  beer,  was  called  upon  to  become  mild  and 
broad. 

"  Street  fights !  "  said  the  rector.  "  Disgraceful !  " 
Finally  he  threatened  to  report  him  to  the  bishop. 
And  the  Reverend  Bill,  who  had  learnt  to  love  his  ene- 
mies while  he  knocked  them  into  the  gutter,  first  apolo- 
gised and  then  evolved  the  theory  that  salvation  could 
be  earned  by  apostolic  blows  and  knocks.  So  to  use  up 
his  energy  he  started  the  boxing  class.  As  his  idea  was 
in  a  way  the  same  as  that  of  the  Settlement,  and  as  the 
Settlement  boys  advertised  Fighting  Bill  in  every  corri- 
dor by  emulating  his  evangelical  practices,  he  was  se- 
duced into  the  lay  fold  by  the  offer  of  a  room  and  a 
ring.  It  appealed  to  him;  the  Settlement  was  in  his 
view  no  better  than  hell,  but  he  felt  it  was  his  duty  to 
knock  Satan  out,  and  he  was  not  sure  that  in  paradise 
he  could  hope  to  get  on  with  anybody  except  perhaps 
St.  George.  Fighting  Bill  was  wrong  about  the  Settle- 
ment being  hell;  it  was  more  like  Laodicea.  Still, 
Laodicea,  devoid  of  spiritual  aims,  had  worldly  ones, 
and  so  came  about  the  queer  alliance.  The  Settlement 
used  Fighting  Bill's  mystic  fisticuffs  to  get  in  the  boys 
whom  it  entangled  into  technical  classes,  while  the 
curate  slyly  worked  to  get  them  to  come  to  the  Com- 
munion table  before  breakfast.  (He  was  often  suc- 
cessful in  this,  as  in  St.  Fanwich  many  did  not  have 
breakfast.) 

Huncote  stood  for  a  moment  near  the  door  of  the  big 
room,  made  shy  by  novelty.  It  was  very  dark  except 
in  the  middle.  All  along  the  walls  were  forms,  packed 
with  youths,  some  with  cigarettes,  a  shoving,  chat- 
tering mass.  Few  smoked,  for  nobody  under  eigh- 
teen was  allowed  tobacco.  Fighting  Bill  had  settled 
that.  "  If  I  see  you  with  a  fag  in  your  mouth  be- 
fore you're  eighteen,"  he  remarked,  in  general,  "  I'll 
give  you  a  thick  ear."  Smoking  became  unfashion- 
able, 


THE  WINGS  OF  UTOPIA         83 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  scene  that  struck  and  im- 
pressed Huncote.  Between  the  white  ropes  upon  the 
floor  that  glittered  under  the  hard  white  light  of  the 
big  gas  lamps  stood  two  youths,  stripped  to  the  waist, 
with  clumsy,  gloved  hands  and  quick  live  bodies.  They 
ducked,  they  feinted,  they  retreated,  and  then  smack, 
smack,  a  good  double  body  blow, 

A  voice  said :     "  That's  nice." 

The  youth  who  had  been  hit  recovered,  dodged,  and 
now  he  was  upon  his  antagonist,  striking,  missing,  then 
striking  again,  driving  him  into  the  ropes. 

Huncote  grew  conscious  of  the  referee,  a  burly,  mid- 
dle-sized figure  in  clerical  clothes,  a  figure  that  ran 
around  the  contestants,  that  thrust  itself  between  them 
with  an  angry  cry  of  "  Break !  "  when  they  clinched. 
And  for  a  moment,  as  the  figure  did  not  interfere,  Hun- 
cote saw  him  and  envied  him,  flushed,  smiling  sideways 
with  a  bulldog  pipe  stuck  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth: 
Ford  at  work! 

Huncote  watched  for  a  long  time  to  the  end  of  this 
contest  which  was  to  be  followed  by  the  boxing  class, 
when  the  curate  took  ten  youths  together,  the  rawest 
beginners  those,  showing  them  where  to  place  their  feet, 
walking  rapidly  up  and  down  the  line  to  correct  their 
guard.  And  he  enjoyed  the  big  voice  that  shouted  to 
one  of  the  softies :  "  That's  no  good.  You're  not 
catching  flies,  are  you  ?  " 

Ford  picked  a  more  promising  one  and  stood  up  to 
him  to  be  hit.  Smack  came  the  boxing-glove  between 
Ford's  eyes.  "  Not  a  bit  of  good !  "  Smack  again,  a 
little  louder.  "  Didn't  feel  it !  "  And  so  on  until  the 
exasperated  youth  drew  from  his  thin  arm  enough 
strength  to  make  the  parson  reel. 

Huncote  was  oppressed  too  by  the  continuous  sound 
from  the  end  of  the  room  that  came  from  the  punching 
ball  on  which  Ford's  favourite  heavyweight  was  prac- 
tising. When  at  last  it  was  over,  about  an  hour  and  a 


84     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

half  later,  the  curate  closed  the  proceedings  with  a  short 
speech : 

"  Boys,  you  know  where  to  find  me  again  if  you  want 
to  see  me  before  next  Wednesday."  (Wink.  This  was 
forbidden  at  the  Settlement.)  "You  know  where  we 
can  have  a  straight  talk,  you  and  me."  (Shouts  of 
"  Yes,  sir!'/)  "  Well,  that's  all  right.  Good-by,  and 
don't  practise  what  you've  learnt  on  your  mother !  " 
(Roars  of  merriment.) 

Then  Ford  shouted :     "  Who's  for  a  drink  ?  " 

He  collected  the  three  who  were  over  twenty-one,  for 
beer  was  forbidden  by  him  under  that  age,  the  penalty 
being  the  same  as  for  smoking  when  under  eighteen. 
As  the  party  broke  up  he  saw  Huncote  whom  he  knew 
by  sight. 

"  Join  us  ?  "  he  said  cheerfully. 

Huncote  hesitated.  He  was  vaguely  afraid  of  fol- 
lowing Fighting  Bill  and  his  young  friends  into  the 
public  house.  The  Reverend  William  felt  it.  "  No  ?  " 
he  said.  "  Well,  see  you  another  night ;  we  can  have  a 
chat."  And  he  passed  on  with  his  disciples,  a  crowd 
of  smaller  boys  eligible  only  for  gym  following  respect- 
fully a  few  yards  behind,  escorting  the  giant  to  the 
place  where  he  would  refresh  himself.  As  they  passed 
and  Huncote  waited,  he  heard  the  beginning  of  an  argu- 
ment as  to  whether  Bill  was  as  good  as  Gunner  Moir. 
After  the  room  had  emptied  he  went  out  into  the  corri- 
dor that  seemed  so  cold  without  anything  living  in  it. 
Those  half  dozen  words  with  Fighting  Bill  had  shaken 
him  a  little;  the  parson  seemed  so  alive  and  zestful  as 
he  knocked  loafers  into  heaven.  Huncote  felt  apart, 
as  if  he  belonged  to  some  inhuman  system.  Ford  and 
his  friends  seemed  to  have  taken  warmth  with  them. 
He  sighed;  but  what  was  one  to  do?  And  suddenly 
there  came  upon  him  the  feeling  that  after  all  Ford 
was  being  used  for  the  purposes  of  the  Settlement,  was 
contributing  to  its  power,  bringing  through  apparent 


THE  WINGS  OF  UTOPIA         85 

brutality  all  these  boys  nearer  to  culture  and  to  edu- 
cation. It  was  not  his  business  to  follow  them  into 
public  houses;  his  rather  to  sow  the  field  which  Ford 
ploughed.  Still,  it  had  been  dusty  in  there;  he  felt 
thirsty. 

"  I'd  better  go  and  have  a  drink  at  the  Progress 
Arms,"  he  thought. 

Ill 

It  was  just  round  the  corner  to  the  Progress  Arms,  as 
it  always  is  to  public  houses,  except  that  the  Progress 
Arms  was  not  exactly  a  public  house.  It  was  a  large 
white  room  with  a  monastic  air ;  a  hint  of  cheerfulness 
in  its  disordered  benches;  an  accumulating  hint  of 
aesthetic  developments  about  the  Kingsley  and  John 
Morley  texts  upon  the  wall.  This  den  of  Janus  showed 
the  face  of  improvement  by  the  side  of  the  face  of  the 
drinking  hell.  (The  alliance  between  the  sheep  and 
the  goat ;  and  could  they  cross  ?)  On  the  improvement 
side  were  four  newspapers,  the  Daily  Express,  the  Daily 
News,  the  Daily  Chronicle,  and  the  Daily  Citizen. 
This  congress  of  political  oppositions  had  created  in  the 
bosom  of  the  Committee  a  fine  sense  of  open-mindedness, 
because  each  member  objected  to  at  least  two  out  of  the 
four  papers.  On  the  improvement  side  also,  on  a  shelf, 
were  some  Really  Good  Books,  the  titles  of  which  Hun- 
cote  could  not  see ;  but  he  was  haunted  the  whole  even- 
ing by  one  of  them,  which  lay  on  the  floor, —  The  Pleas- 
ures of  Life  by  Sir  John  Lubbock.  It  looked  as  if  it 
had  been  flung  there  with  great  violence  by  one  of  the 
revellers. 

On  the  drinking  hell  side  were  the  bar,  two  gas-jets, 
and  a  barmaid.  The  bar  and  gas-jets  were  quite  nor- 
mal, but  the  barmaid  was  such  as  to  deliver  man  from 
evil.  Lastly,  there  was  the  gambling  den:  marble- 
topped  tables,  draughts,  chess,  and  dominoes.  When 


86     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Huncote  came  in  the  dominoes  were  engaging  two  rather 
depressed-looking  revellers,  while  another,  whose  cocoa 
seemed  to  have  gone  to  his  head,  was  addressing  confi- 
dential, but  presumably  progressive  remarks  to  the  re- 
sistible barmaid.  There  was  a  little  stir  when  Huncote 
came  in,  even  among  the  dominoes.  The  man  at  the 
bar  straightened  himself  and  respectfully  wished  him: 
"  Good  evening."  The  barmaid  grew  very  conscious  of 
being  looked  at,  which  she  wasn't. 

"  A  cup  of  cocoa,  please,"  said  Huncote,  and  in  the 
silence  that  followed  felt  impelled  to  add  to  the  roomful : 
"  Go  on,  don't  mind  me."  For  he  acutely  felt  that  they 
were  minding  him.  But  little  by  little  things  seemed 
to  grow  easier;  two  youths  came  in  and  in  a  very  far 
corner  began  behind  a  chess-board  to  play  some  peculiar 
game  of  their  own  with  a  metallic  tinkle  about  it. 
Huncote  suspected  it  must  be  shove  halfpenny,  strictly 
forbidden.  But  what  was  one  to  do?  He  engaged  in 
conversation  the  man  at  the  bar  and  the  barmaid. 

"  Rather  a  fine  night,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "  Let's  hope  it'll  keep 
on." 

"  A  little  rain'll  do  the  country  good,"  said  the  bar- 
maid refinedly. 

The  man  at  the  bar  opened  his  mouth  to  say :  "  Shut 
yer  mug,  the  country  don't  want  no  rain  in  January," 
but  just  in  time  altered  it  to :  "  We  can't  always  'ave 
what  we  want  in  this  world." 

"  Ah,  no,"  sighed  the  barmaid.  "  Isn't  that  true, 
sir?  Still  we  mustn't  grumble,  must  we,  sir?  Every 
cloud  has  a  silver  lining." 

"  That  depends,  that  depends,"  said  the  man  discon- 
tentedly. 

His  nose  was  so  long  and  so  thin  and  so  sharp  that 
Huncote  felt  sorry  for  him.  Whatever  happened  one 
would  never  be  contented  with  a  nose  like  that. 

"  That   depends,"   said   the   man,   looking   at   him. 


87 

"  For  instance,  there's  my  eldest  boy, —  I  can't  manage 
him.  Manage  that  boy  ?  Well,  yer  might  as  well  try 
and  manage  a  bl — ,  a  blessed  wild  horse.  Now  I  put 
it  to  yer,  sir,  as  man  to  man  I  put  it  to  yer,  sir  .  .  ." 

As  man  to  man  he  put  it  to  him  that  Fred  broke  win- 
dows, and  played  truant,  and  stole  pennies  from  the 
till,  "  regular  bad  boy."  He  put  it  to  Huncote  as  man 
to  man,  and  then  he  put  it  to  him  again.  And  again. 

"  Well,"  said  Huncote,  "  what's  to  be  done  ?  What 
have  you  done  ?  I  s'pose  you've  tried  thrashing  ?  " 

The  man  looked  shamefaced  and  his  nose  chastened. 

"  On  principle,  sir,  I  wouldn't  do  it,  but  what's  a 
man  to  do  ?  I've  given  him  many  a  leatherin'  but  it's 
no  bl — ,  no  use,  sir.  I've  got  to  get  him  into  a  reforma- 
tory. Ah,  if  I  could  do  that  .  .  ." 

"  How  sad,"  murmured  the  barmaid  gently. 

The  man  began  to  paint  the  reformatory  of  his 
dreams,  where  Fred  would  be  washed,  and  taught,  and 
got  out  of  the  way  of  the  beak,  where  at  least,  if  Fred 
did  not  cease  troubling,  his  father  would  be  at  rest. 

"  And  the  beak  won't  send  'im  there,"  he  said  ag- 
grievedly.  "  I  don't  know  what  Vs  waiting  for.  Mur- 
der, I  expect." 

Joe  Beesby  came  in.  "  The  beak !  "  he  grumbled. 
"  Cup  o'  corf ee,  Miss,  please.  The  beak !  Good  even- 
ing, sir,  I  was  tellin'  you  about  'im  the  other  night." 

"  Yes,  you  were,"  said  Huncote  desperately,  remem- 
bering the  story  of  the  tools.  So  he  turned  towards  the 
long  thin  nose. 

,  "  We  ought  to  get  him  into  an  industrial  school,"  he 
said. 

Joe  Beesby  woke  up.  He  felt  somebody  was  going 
to  get  something.  This  would  never  do. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  sorrowfully,  fascinating  Huncote  with 
his  grave  small  eye,  "  I've  got  a  crippled  daughter,  I've 
been  trying  to  get  'er  in  a  'ome.  It's  been  my  ambition 
for  years."  He  paused  and  reverently  took  from  his 


88     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

bald  head  the  little  boy's  cap.  Then  he  wiped  his  head 
with  his  sleeve.  The  long  nose  grew  anxious. 

"  D'yer  think  yer  cud  get  'im  into  an  industrial 
school,  sir  ? " 

Joe  Beesby  said.  "  If  you  was  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Churton,  sir,  about  my  daughter  .  .  ." 

"  Now  I  put  it  to  yer  as  .  .  ."  said  the  long  thin 
nose. 

Two  more  men  came  in  and  settled  opposite  Huncote, 
so  that  he  was  blockaded  between  Beesby  and  the  thin 
nose.  They  endlessly  explained  their  troubles,  begged 
for  the  remedies  which  apparently  he  held  in  his  hands. 
It  was  like  a  scene  on  the  stage,  with  the  gas  sputtering 
above  his  head,  and  the  barmaid  looking  at  him  raptly, 
thinking  he  did  talk  beautiful. 

It  was  a  long  time,  he  thought,  before  he  escaped, 
before  he  got  out  of  the  Progress  Arms,  leaving  behind 
him  the  parents  who  talked  of  getting  their  children 
into  the  reformatory  and  the  cripples'  home  as  awed  as 
if  they  were  going  to  get  them  into  Parliament.  He 
was  uneasy.  It  was  not  that  people  troubled  him,  not 
Beesby  nor  the  anonymous  nose.  But  there  was  creep- 
ing upon  him  a  suspicion  as  to  the  quality  of  his  own 
work.  And  so  he  did  not  go  home  straight,  but  found 
himself  walking  down  past  Bubwith's,  cutting  across 
Somerton  towards  Euston.  It  was  very  dark  in  Somer- 
ton,  except  at  corners  where  they  sold  drink.  As  he 
went  he  thought :  "  After  the  flood  Deucalion,  to  make 
new  men,  flung  behind  him  his  grandmother's  bones. 
What  is  it  I  fling  that  slaves  should  arise  behind  me  ? " 

In  the  grip  of  this  reaction  he  stopped  at  a  flaming 
public  house,  at  the  corner  of  the  alley  that  leads  into 
Paradise  Square.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  and,  spurred 
on  by  the  clock  that  is  always  a  little  fast,  the  men  in 
the  public  bar  were  shouldering  one  another.  One 
could  hardly  hear  oneself  order  a  drink,  such  a  deep 
buzz  of  talk  did  there  come  from  the  private  bar  and  the 


THE  WINGS  OF  UTOPIA         89 

ladies'.  For  a  moment  the  barmaid  hovered  over  Hun- 
cote,  turkey-cock  body  and  torch  ahead.  She  winked  at 
him  as  she  gave  him  his  whisky  and  soda,  thought  him 
green,  for  this  drink  seemed  aristocratic  in  the  public 
bar.  For  a  moment  she  rested  on  her  elbow  and  stared 
at  him.  Then  as  he  raised  his  glass  remarked: 
"  Chin-chin." 

He  laughed,  feeling  together  shy  and  comfortable. 

Two  men  who  were  close  up  against  him  nudged  each 
other  and  laughed  at  him,  with  him..  They  were  not 
quite  drunk.  "  She  didn't  'arf  give  'im  the  glad  eye," 
murmured  one  of  them,  nodding  towards  Huncote  as  he 
spoke.  "  No  wonner  he  thinks  hisself  a  Piccadilly 
torf."  He  was  not  offensive.  He  laughed  as  he  spoke, 
and  somehow  Huncote  found  himself  joined  to  him  by 
his  merriment. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  talking  to  them.  One  was 
a  navvy,  the  other  a  taxi  driver.  It  was  a  strange  con- 
versation for,  starting  from  their  daily  work,  it  passed 
on  swiftly  to  the  political  views  of  their  class,  to  ideas. 

"  You've  got  to  'ave  unemployment,"  said  the  navvy. 
"  'Ow'd  yer  manage  w'en  there's  a  rush  if  there  weren't 
no  unemployed  ? " 

The  taxi  driver  nodded  sagely.  "  You've  got  it,  but 
it'll  all  be  stopped  w'en  we  get  the  Eight  to  Work  Bill. 
Another  mouthful  of  Guinness's,  Miss,  an'  keep  yer  eye 
orf  youth  and  beauty."  (Nodding  towards  Huncote.) 

The  taxi  driver  and  the  navvy  fell  to  discussing  the 
Right  to  Work  Bill,  and  Huncote,  listening,  saying 
"  yes  "  or  "  no  "  when  appealed  to  as  a  sort  of  judge, 
found  it  extraordinary  that  these  men  should  under- 
stand so  well  without,  of  course,  being  able  to  state  in 
political  form  what  they  thought,  the  reactions  between 
the  supply  and  the  demand  of  goods,  the  reserve  of 
labour,  a  thing  of  which  he  was  himself  but  dimly  con- 
scious. Had  he  underrated  the  people?  He  felt 
ashamed.  The  two  men  began  to  wrangle,  for  the  taxi 


90     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

driver  wanted  women  to  be  placed  on  the  same  footing 
as  men.  The  navvy  objected,  presumably  because 
women  might  cut  into  the  navvy  trade.  "  All  right  for 
you  to  talk,"  he  said ;  "  women  won't  drive  your  bloody 
taxi." 

Huncote  intervened ;  asked  the  taxi  driver  if  he  was  a 
socialist.  Both  men  grew  violent.  They  weren't  no 
blasted  socialists,  either  on  'em,  they  were  just  plain 
men  who  kept  their  eyes  open,  that's  what  they  were. 

Then,  when  their  political  attitude  was  defined,  ex- 
treme anarchism  which  thought  itself  conservative,  Hun- 
cote  was  given  a  drink. 

He  was  thinking  a  little  more  clearly  as  he  walked 
home  through  the  brilliant  winter-whiteness  of  the 
waning  night.  He  did  not  want  to  go  home  to  his  dirty 
little  rooms  in  Clare  Street,  the  sitting  room  where  the 
landlady  would  have  let  out  the  fire  long  ago,  the  bed- 
room where,  if  the  window  was  open,  which  he  hoped, 
the  washstand  would  probably  be  covered  with  a  thin 
film  of  smuts.  Through  Paradise  Row  and  Crapp's 
Lane,  Crapp's  Lane  that  winds,  by  day  violent  of  voice 
and  of  nights  so  little  and  so  still,  towards  the  north  he 
went,  with  nothing  to  accompany  him  save  his  thoughts. 
And  nothing  to  distract  him.  The  world  seemed  so  far 
away  when  asleep,  and  so  little  remained  of  the  world 
of  day ;  the  smell  of  rotting  vegetables  fallen  from  the 
costers'  stalls;  the  padding  of  a  cat's  paws  as  it  leapt 
from  a  window  onto  the  pavement;  the  distant  lowing 
of  a  cow  in  that  insanitary  shed  that  Miss  Miskin  so 
often  denounced.  Only  details  in  a  life  that  every  day 
grew  wider.  He  thought  of"  all  these  organisations 
eddying  round  him,  of  the  brotherhoods  and  the 
P.S.A.'s ;  of  the  clerk,  the  coster,  the  small  tradesman, 
the  silk-hatted  coronations  of  men  who  were  rising  in 
the  world, —  and  even  a  little  uneasily  of  Fighting  Bill 
and  what  he  represented.  If  the  Progress  Arms  meant 
too  little  and  that  public  house  where  he  had  just  drunk 


91 

meant  nothing,  perhaps  Fighting  Bill  meant  too  much. 
So  like  a  dog  running  fast  after  a  stone,  and  so  fast 
as  to  overrun  it.  Even  Fighting  Bill  seemed  artificial 
in  this  icy  blue  light  that  fell  from  the  moon  and  made 
blacker  shadows  upon  black  stones,  as  if  the  earth  were 
dead  and  another  Selene.  He  laughed.  A  new  Selene. 
And  Fighting  Bill's  Sunday  meetings  where  gentlemen 
probably  doffed  their  collars  and  wore  chokers  to  en- 
courage men  who  either  never  wore  collars  or  never 
changed  them.  It  seemed  so  funny  and  so  unreal,  this 
business  he  was  at  with  the  others.  He  turned  back, 
and  as  he  so  did  he  sighed.  For  a  little  while  he  stopped 
in  front  of  Bubwith's  Stores,  now  shuttered.  Chairs 
and  tables,  horsehair  and  plush,  yes,  that  was  all  solid 
enough.  Anyhow,  one  could  sit  on  it.  He  sighed. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTH 

WAVEEING    WINGS 


IT  was  fortunate  for  Huncote  that  his  work  tended  to 
change,  that  Churton,  as  if  by  intention,  often  suggested 
new  fields.  For  otherwise  he  would  have  been  lonely. 
There  were  no  Londoners  in  his  family;  on  both  sides 
they  were  country  people,  most  of  whom  shunned  the 
wicked  city ;  the  nearer  folk  at  St.  Olaves  came  up  only 
six  weeks  in  the  year  because  once  upon  a  time  they 
had  come  up  six  weeks  in  the  year.  And,  as  at  Ox- 
ford, he  made  few  new  friends.  He  saw  Gorsley  in  the 
intervals  of  the  fat  youth's  bounds  up  the  ladder  of  suc- 
cess. (This  was  taking  the  form  of  a  year's  cramming 
for  the  Indian  Civil.)  Churton  gave  him  little:  some 
conversation  about  the  Settlement  which  Churton 
seemed  to  look  upon  as  a  relief  from  the  work;  his  so- 
ciety on  aimless  walks  before  dinner  in  which  he  con- 
fided nothing  of  his  thoughts  and  everything  of  his  ob- 
servations. Ditton  he  met  casually  with  the  hateful 
sense  of  being  ashamed:  Ditton  was  a  witness.  Hun- 
cote  felt  very  red-eared  after  the  few  minutes'  talk  they 
had  outside  a  tube  station;  as  Ditton  looked  at  him 
Huncote  felt  heavy  upon  him  the  oppression  of  the  man 
who  knew  that  he  had  been  drunk  and  incontinent. 
He  was  wrong ;  Ditton  knew  nothing  of  the  end  except 
that  he  had  vanished  with  Wray,  and  Lord  Alastair  was 
far  too  drunk  to  remember  what  had  happened.  So 
Huncote  as  good  as  ran  away  and  seldom  thought  of  his 
companions  on  that  evil,  beneficent,  revealing  night, 
except  sometimes  of  Moss,  with  whom  he  would  like 


WAVERING  WINGS  93 

to  have  pursued  that  conversation  about  Bach.  But  he 
dared  not  go  to  Copthall  Buildings;  Moss  was  part  of 
the  past  that  made  him,  and  past.  Huncote  was  like  a 
kitten  that  knows  not  its  mother  after  six  months. 

He  had  abandoned  the  employment  bureau  now  and 
was  engaged  on  an  attempt,  initiated  by  Platt,  to  Raise 
the  Artistic  Status  of  the  People.  Platt,  who  belonged 
to  the  Temple  Club  (and  was  bald  and  a  Liberal),  had 
determined  to  harness  to  the  chariot  of  his  political 
career  the  principles  of  the  Kyrle  Society.  One  had 
to  give  the  people  the  habit  of  pictures,  "  for  every  pic- 
ture tells  a  story,"  Platt  suggested.  And  so,  if  one 
began  by  hanging  the  people's  rooms  with  reproductions 
of  "The  Golden  Staircase",  or  of  "Dante's  First 
Meeting  with  Beatrice  ",  one  might,  little  by  little,  by 
inducing  them  to  accept  other  pictures  of  the  same  na- 
ture, bring  them  to  hang  pictures,  artistic  of  course, 
most  artistic,  but  reading  a  truer  party  lesson.  Pic- 
tures of  Mr.  Gladstone,  for  instance. 

Also  he  was  dutifully  visiting  the  Progress  Arms  once 
a  week,  and  now  and  then  he  played  at  concerts.  His 
past  troubled  him  a  little,  those  people  he  had  befriended 
and,  notably,  the  woman  who  had  the  frequent  twins. 
For  affection  had  developed  in  her,  and  so  she  would 
come  in  now  and  then,  when  he  still  controlled  the  Em- 
ployment Bureau,  and  detect  in  his  face  symptoms  of 
disease. 

"  You're  lookin'  a  bit  pale,  Mister  'Uncote.  I  been 
like  that.  It's  wisteria,  the  doctor  says  it  is;  I  know, 
I've  'ad  it." 

Huncote  reassured  her  as  to  his  hysteria.  But  if  he 
was  not  pale  he  was  sallow,  and  when  noticed  was  told : 

"That's  jaundice,  sir;  I  know,  I've  'ad  it." 

Huncote's  protegee  would  have  been  appreciated  by 
the  curator  of  the  College  of  Surgeons'  Museum. 

There  was  a  Purity  for  Boys  movement  too.  But 
that  was  to  lead  him  farther. 


94    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

There  were  disconnections  in  his  life.  Things  oc- 
curred ;  then  there  were  blanks.  During  the  blanks  he 
smoked  a  lot.  During  one  of  them  Flora  came  up  to 
town,  visited  his  rooms  in  Clare  Street  and  explored, 
with  pretty  liftings  of  skirt  and  charming  pouts,  the 
innumerable  places  his  landlady  had  never  dusted.  He 
liked  being  with  Flora.  Elspeth,  for  this  desultory 
mood,  would  have  been  too  precise,  too  hard;  she  was 
never  desultory ;  she  lived  like  a  ledger  and  carried  for- 
ward at  the  end  of  every  day.  So,  as  it  was  not  mati- 
nee day,  Huncote  induced  Flora  to  walk  with  him  from 
St.  Panwich  to  St.  John's  Wood,  as  she  declared  that 
she  would  rather  stay  with  a  friend  of  hers  than  in  his 
undusted  rooms,  even  though  that  friend  had  married 
a  vicar.  The  walk  was  like  his  life,  desultory.  It 
began  at  the  St.  Panwich  High  Street,  where  Flora's 
prettiness  attracted  attention;  the  greengrocer's  boy  in- 
terrupted an  argument  with 'one  of  his  peers  to  beg  Hun- 
cote  to  leave  the  girl  alone.  Flora  tittered,  while  Hun- 
cote  walked  very  stiff  and  hot  by  her  side,  and  the  two 
boys  behind  them  produced  poor  imitations  of  feminine 
giggles  and  squeals  of :  "  Don'tj  Algy,  you're  squeez- 
ing." They  straggled  along  through  Regent's  Park 
that  was  fresh  with  spring,  the  new  grass  purple-span- 
gled with  crocuses.  Flora,  after  shyly  alluding  to  her 
new  conquests,  chattered  of  the  graces  of  Lewis  Waller, 
and  the  desirability  of  coloured  socks  for  men,  then  be- 


came serious. 
a 


Oh,  Roger,"  she  groaned,  "  how  I  hate  St.  Olaves !  " 

He  looked  at  her  humorously. 

"You'd  hate  London  if  you  lived  in  it,"  he  said, 
"you  only  want  a  change.  You  ought  to  live  in  a 
cinema." 

"  I'd  love  to  live  in  a  cinema.  Not  in  the  St. 
Olaves  one ;  it's  too  violent.  You  know,  Roger,  cinemas 
always  are  more  violent  in  cathedral  towns.  They  take 
people's  mind  off  it." 


WAVERING  WINGS  95 

They  progressed  towards  St.  John's  Wood,  Flora  still 
bemoaning  her  fate. 

"  It's  mother,"  she  said.  "  There  she  is  with  her 
half-socialism,  with  her  half-suffrage,  sticking  in  the 
mud  and  me  with  her.  And  she  calls  herself  progres- 
sive!" 

"  She  is  —  for  St.  Olaves.  Flora,  dear,  don't  you 
see  that  if  she  came  to  town  she'd  no  longer  be  pro- 
gressive, no  longer  have  prospects  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  if  she  hadn't  ?  Prospects  are  for  youth, 
retrospects  for  age." 

Huncote  looked  at  her  amazed. 

"  Flora !  This  is  the  most  modern  kind  of  epigram : 
it  means  nothing,  it's  entirely  idiotic,  and  it  sounds 
profound.  Flora !  I  believe  you've  fallen  in  love  with 
a  member  of  the  St.  Olaves  Fabian  nursery." 

She  laughed,  she  blushed.  (She  did  both  prettily.) 
And  her  brother's  guess  was  right  enough,  for  the  re- 
mark had  been  made  by  a  young  architect,  the  philo- 
sophical anarchist  who  was  restoring  the  gargoyles  of 
the  Abbey,  singing  as  he  so  did  most  obscene  Italian 
songs.  (A  minor  canon,  who  understood  Italian, 
caught  him  at  it  once  but  was  nonplussed  when  told 
that  profanity  formed  an  essential  part  of  the  medi- 
aeval spirit  of  worship.)  But  it  was  not  Flora's  policy 
to  announce  her  scalps ;  mystery  made  them  more :  had 
she  fallen  in  love  with  a  hydra  she  would  not  have 
hinted  at  a  hundred  heads. 

Instead  she  went  on  mourning ;  in  St.  Olaves  she  was 
marooned. 

"  Look  at  that,"  she  cried,  in  Marlborough  Road, 
pointing  to  the  grounds  of  the  Fly-Fishing  School, 
where  the  trees,  like  tall  black-clad  schoolgirls,  crowned 
with  stray  green  leaves,  curtseyed  to  the  light  spring 
wind.  "  Look  at  that ;  it's  like  St.  Olaves,  only  it's 
London.  Roger,  we  ought  to  have  a  house  here.  D'you 
think  mother  would  ?  "  She  grew  excited,  seized  him 


96     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

by  the  arm  as  she  looked  at  the  beautiful  wild  plot  of 
meadow  and  trees  where  sometimes  nightingales  sing, 
yet  of  the  builder  spared.  "  Roger,  d'you  think  it 
would  be  very  dear  —  to  buy  that  land  —  and  to  build 
a  house?  Oh,  Roger,  you  build  a  house.  You're 
rich!" 

"  I'm  not" 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are.  Oh,  Roger,  do  build  a  house,  and 
I'll  be  your  housekeeper,  and  I  shan't  interfere  with 
you  when  you've  got  somebody  really  nice  coming  to  see 
you.  I'll  always  be  out." 

He  laughed.,  "  That's  what  you  call  being  a  house- 
keeper ! " 

But  Flora  was  really  interested,  and  as  they  went 
along  towards  the  Abbey  Road  where  she  left  him  at 
her  friend's  gate,  she  was  still  excitedly  talking  of  the 
St.  Olaves  house  which  her  mother  ought  to  build  on 
the  plot  where  the  Hampstead  stockbrokers  learnt  to 
cast  flies  into  the  currant  bushes. 

II 

It  was  only  just  then  that  dimly,  as  if  he  saw  them 
through  ground  glass,  Huncote,  after  three  months  of 
service  at  the  Settlement,  realised  its  internal  organs. 
Not  clearly,  of  course;  it  was  something  like  a  radio 
photograph  he  saw, —  a  moving  shadow  that  might  be 
a  beating  heart  or  merely  a  stodgy  lump  of  something 
dead,  called  Principles.  More  dimly  he  began  to  see 
persons  behind  the  movement.  Once  upon  a  time  the 
movement  had  a  soul  of  its  own,  had  been  a  beneficent 
spirit  incorporeal. 

Now,  rather  suddenly,  he  found  men  behind  the 
movement,  and  it  made  the  movement  a  little  coarse. 
It  was  a  shock,  just  like  finding  out  that  the  London 
and  South  Western,  in  whose  first-class  carriages  one 
had  ridden  as  often  as  possible  with  a  third-class  ticket, 


WAVERING  WINGS  97 

materialised  in  the  form  of  a  shareholder,  a  nice  old 
lady  who  gave  one  tea  in  a  Rockingham  teacup  and  sent 
half  sovereigns  to  missions. 

But  because  Huncote  was  what  he  was,  that  is  indi- 
rect, he  was  quite  unable  to  understand  the  picture  sys- 
tem by  observing  it,  just  as  he  was  unable  to  under- 
stand the  purity  system  by  observing  it:  his  was  the 
way  of  the  crayfish,  and  he  could  conclude  as  to  the 
pictures  only  by  observing  purity.  The  purity  was 
really  very  interesting.  It  had  newly  been  introduced 
into  St.  Panwich  when  the  Settlement  in  its  layness 
realised  that  the  Alliance  of  Honour  and  the  Reverend 
F.  B.  Meyer  had  brought  off  a  corner  in  local  purity 
movements..  And  the  Settlement  (being  lay)  thought 
it  rather  a  pity  that  the  people,  in  the  course  of  being 
made  pure,  should  also  have  to  be  saved. 

"  You  see,"  said  Churton,  whom  Huncote  suspected 
of  having  created  the  whole  idea  and  of  hiding  it  with 
the  ostentatious  modesty  so  rife  in  public-school  boys, 
"  we  felt  we  couldn't  leave  it  out.  Not  exactly  nice,  of 
course.  Only  when  they've  got  this  sort  of  thing  all 
over  the  place  .  .  ." 

He  held  out  to  Huncote  a  little  pamphlet,  entitled 
"  THE  TEMPLE  OF  MY  BODY.  To  Young  Men.  The 
Road  to  Purity  (48th  edition,  157th  thousand)." 

Huncote  looked  at  "  the  sort  of  thing  "  with  rather 
uncertain  emotions.  He  read  the  confession  of  a  man 
who  said  he  had  a  very  prurient  imagination,  then  vague 
allusions  to  the  maelstrom  of  passion  and  the  bliss  of 
wedlock.  He  read  also  a  pathetic  little  story,  entitled 
"  Excelsior  ",  beginning  with  the  body  of  a  well-dressed 
young  woman  found  hanging  in  a  doss-house.  It 
was  quite  an  exciting  little  book,  with  pictures  of  the 
Titanic  going  down,  and  of  British  soldiers  defending 
in  a  probable  Transvaal  something  that  looked  like  a 
tram  but  probably  was  not.  It  was  quite  the  sort  of 
thing  that  boys  might  read,  only  it  was  not  convenient 


98     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

for  lay  purposes  owing  to  the  religious  allusions  at  the 
end.  It  was  rather  a  revelation  to  Huncote.  He  had 
never  realised  before  until  he  saw  the  literature,  "  The 
Knight  of  the  White  Cross  ",  "  Royal  Womanhood  in 
every  Rank",  and  many  such  like,  that  there  were 
classes  which  the  community  flooded  with  pamphlets 
and  more  efficiently  watched  than  it  had  ever  watched 
him  at  his  public  school  or  university.  He  had  been 
pi-jawed.  They  were  being  morally  organised.  It  was 
funny,  and  it  was  awkward  too ;  it  made  him  quite  un- 
comfortable at  Fighting  Bill's  boxing  class  to  which  he 
returned.  How  could  he  know,  as  he  watched  these  nice 
boys  sparring,  that  they  had  not  recently  been  vacci- 
nated with  puritine  ?  Where  were  the  mental  scabs  ? 
he  wondered.  And  while  Fighting  Bill  murmured: 
"  That's  nice,"  and  then  roared :  "  Clinch,  you  silly 
kid !  "  Huncote  found  himself  haunted  by  the  Reverend 
Stopford  Brooke's  admonitory  verse: 

"  Three  girls  began  that  summer  night, 
A  life  of  endless  shame, 
And  went  through  drink,  disease  and  death, 
As  swift  as  racing  flame." 

Still,  it  did  not  make  everybody  uncomfortable,  and 
one  of  those  whom  it  best  pleased  was  clearly  George 
Green.  What  George  Green  was  doing  in  the  Settle- 
ment, in  fact  on  the  Committee,  was  rather  mysterious. 
He  was  about  forty-five  and  had  the  white  podgy  face 
of  the  unaired  and  the  unexercised.  His  large  nose, 
heavy  at  the  tip  and  turned  up,  conveyed  unlimited 
pugnacity.  Huncote  hated  him,  largely  because  black 
hairs  stuck  out  of  his  nostrils;  he  was  bald  too,  and  a 
paunch  was  developing.  He  hated  the  insinuating  con- 
fidence of  the  man,  half-shamed,  half-boastful,  when 
George  Green  conveyed  that  he  was  sober  and  uxorious, 
having  made  up  his  mind  to  get  on  and  discovered  that 
drink  cost  money  and  women  didn't.  In  those  early 


WAVERING  WINGS  99 

days  Huncote  was  still  able  to  believe  that  something 
noble  and  disinterested  struggled  in  George  Green's 
alleged  soul.  Only  it  was  jolly  hard  to  find  that  some- 
thing. What  could  one  expect  of  a  man  with  such  a 
voice  ?  a  voice  like  a  squashed  tomato  ?  If  Huncote  had 
known  he  would  have  been  less  surprised  and  more  in- 
dignant; he  would  have  known  that  Green  had  picked 
up  in  the  course  of  his  business  as  a  builder  some  mort- 
gages on  houses  pulled  down  to  build  the  Settlement. 
He  had  realised  that  the  Settlement  might  grow  and 
had  shown  himself  so  interested,  so  easy  in  his  terms 
that  on  the  creation  of  the  Committee,  competition  not 
yet  being  keen,  he  had  obtained  a  seat.  The  Settlement 
had  been  extended  from  time  to  time.  Churton  was 
sometimes  puzzled  by  an  architectural  problem;  then 
the  builder  would  say :  "  Leave  it  to  me  and  my  man, 
Mr.  Churton;  me  and  'im'll  do  it  for  you  at  corst 
price." 

Huncote  had  not  realised  this;  he  had  but  glimpsed 
it  just  as  he  was  now  glimpsing  the  sensuous  connec- 
tions between  the  builder  and  the  purity  movement. 
He  awoke  to  it  only  when  George  Green  came  to  his 
office  to  complain  about  a  secular  short  story  in  pamphlet 
form;  with  this  the  Settlement  tried  to  warn  youth 
against  perils  which  the  Settlement  was  too  modest  to 
name.  It  was  the  usual  kind  of  warning :  rather  sug- 
gestive, entirely  uneducational. 

"  Now  I  arsk  yer,  Mr.  'Uncote,  what's  the  good  o' 
this  ?  'Go's  goin'  to  read  this  ?  That  wot  yer  call  gin- 
ger?" 

Huncote  read  the  opening,  which  had  been  composed, 
he  seemed  to  remember,  by  Mrs.  Kamsey,  entitled 
"  Beauty's  Shrine  " : 

"Upon  a  beautiful  April  morning  a  young  Englishman, 
tall  and  fair  as  a  Greek  God,  stood  by  the  side  of  a  brook. 
By  his  side  a  young  maiden  of  sweet  seventeen  sat  at  his 
feet  with  her  eyes  glued  to  the  summons  that  he  should  join 


100     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

his  regiment.  They  did  not  speak  but  listened  to  the  noise, 
far  away,  of  a  train  *  in  the  valley.  She  looked  up  to  him, 
her  eyes  swimming  in  tears,  and  said :  '  Oh,  Archie,  must 
you  go  ? ' 

"It  is  my  duty,'  said  the  young  soldier,  for  he  was  a  son 
of  the  bulldog  breed.  .  .  ." 

In  due  course  the  story  became  pathetic;  the  young 
soldier  was  tempted  more  often  than  even  most  young 
soldiers  are  tempted  and  more  horribly,  for  it  was  al- 
most impossible  to  find  out  from  the  story  how  or  by 
what  he  was  tempted.  He  had  enteric  (it  was  so  diffi- 
cult to  miss  enteric  about  1902),  so  probably  his  nurse 
was  at  fault.  But  he  surmounted  all  these  anonymous 
temptations  by  the  strength  of  his  ethical  purposes,  and 
he  came  back  a  long  time  later,  grizzled  and  sunburnt, 
with  a  scar  upon  his  forehead  to  find  the  maiden  wait- 
ing for  him  at  the  Ch railway  station. 

"  No,"  said  Huncote,  at  length,  "  I  suppose  it  isn't 
exactly  what  you'd  call  catchy."  He  reflected  that  it 
was  a  pity  they  had  put  Mrs.  Ramsey  on  this  work. 
Her  specialty  was  not  literature  but  the  white  slave 
traffic. 

"  Now  look  'ere,"  said  George  Green,  "  you  take  my 
tip,  Mr.  'Uncote,  we  don'  want  none  of  this  'ere  lardydar 
psalm-smitin'  wi'out  the  psalms.  Wot  you  want  is 
somethin'  as  they'll  think  'ot." 

Huncote  looked  at  him  rather  puzzled. 

"  Oh,  surely,  Mr.  Green,  you'd  be  creating  the  evil 
you  want  to  root  out  ? " 

The  builder  made  a  large  gesture  with  a  short  arm. 

"  You  don'  take  me.  Wot  we've  got  to  do  is  to  git 
them  inter  the  Settlement.  Don't  matter  'ow  yer  do  it ; 
git  'em  in,  Settlement  does  the  rest.  It's  like  the  Fabian 
Society."  His  tone  became  knowing.  "Besides,  'oo 
cares  ?  We  ain't  so  partic'lar,  you  an'  me."  He 
nudged  Huncote  with  a  violent  elbow.  "  We  ain't 

i  Originally   "  church  bells."    Deleted   by   the  Committee. 


101 

above  a  week-end  at  Brighton,  are  we  ?     Eh,  wot  ? " 
(Eh,  what?  was  popular  in  those  days.) 

Huncote  looked  at  him  more  amused  than  disgusted. 
He  was  faintly  beginning  to  grasp  the  nature  of  George 
Green's  interest  in  this  purity  movement.  Why,  the 
man  actually  liked  purity  because  it  made  impurity 
more  impure.  It  was  as  wonderful  as  it  was  disgust- 
ing. 

The  builder  went  on: 

"  Tell  yer  wot,  these  pictures  of  swells  round  the 
fountain  in  Piccadilly,  that's  too  rekerky,  as  the  French 
say.  If  yer  want  'em  to  read  the  stuff  put  on  somethin' 
'ot,  picture  of  Venus  of  Milo,  or  somethin'." 

"  'Ot  ?  "  thought  Huncote.     "  'Ot !  " 

The  builder  grew  purposeful:  purity  excited  him. 
He  hinted  at  an  early  marriage,  not  regretted,  for,  of 
course,  "  the  missis  was  the  best  woman  in  the  world, 
but  still,  one  does  want  a  bit  of  a  change,  and  the  spirit 
is  willing  but  the  flesh  is  weak,  as  Shakespeare  says." 

Still  Huncote  listened  to  him,  glad  to  listen;  the 
builder  was  willing  to  talk  and  revealed  himself  so  com- 
pletely, every  side  of  himself,  his  love  of  home  and  his 
respect  of  it,  his  real  and  deep  love  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren, all  these  things  stowed  away  in  a  water-tight  com- 
partment; outside  that  compartment  the  gay  world  of 
larks  and  smut  where  moved  women  figures,  prostitutes 
or  female  employees,  born  for  his  pleasure.  Huncote 
did  not  like  to  comment  on  his  private  life;  anything 
but  generalities  made  him  shy.  Indeed  he  grew  so  shy 
that  he  deflected  the  conversation  as  he  did  not  know 
how  to  get  rid  of  Green.  From  home  he  tried  to  lead 
him  to  building.  But  Green  had  a  good  deal  to  say 
about  home ;  he  loved  it  as  he  loved  his  wealth  because 
he  had  earned  both  at  the  price  of  much  suffering,  much 
labour,  by  dint  of  an  obstinate  fighting  courage,  of  a 
tireless  enterprise  in  finding  out  who  had  land,  who 
money,  and  who  wanted  to  build. 


102     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Bort  a  planner  the  other  day  for  the  nursery,"  he 
confided.  "  O'  course,  we  already  'ad  one  in  the 
drawring-room.  Still,  'ad  to  'ave  another  for  the 
smalls."  He  reflected  upon  his  greatness;  then,  as  if 
soliloquising:  "So  the  wife  plays  the  drawring-room 
one,  and  Arabella  plays  the  nursery  one  with  all  the 
windows  open.  That  fetches  the  neighbours,  I  can  tell 
yer."  He  grew  intense :  "  I'd  put  down  another  forty 
quid,  I  would,  just  to  shew  'em." 

Huncote  could  not  help  laughing,  but  Green  looked  at 
him  stupidly.  Then,  deciding  that  Huncote  had 
laughed  out  of  courtesy,  went  on :  "  You  ain't  thinkin' 
of  buildin',  Mr.  'Uncote,  are  yer  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Huncote.  "  What  would  I  want  with 
a  house,  Mr.  Green  ?  Even  though  my  sister  has  fallen 
in  love  with  a  piece  of  land  in  Marlborough  Road  where 
she  wants  me  to  build  a  house  for  her  and  me,  which  is 
of  course  absurd." 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause.  George  Green's  .eyes 
became  fixed,  and  a  curve  came  into  his  shoulders  as  he 
were  a  beast  about  to  spring.  "  Oh,  that  ain't  a  bad 
ideer.  That  neighbourhood's  comin'  on.  Tell  yer 
wot,"  he  added,  with  a  burst  of  frankness,  "  runnin'  up 
rows  and  rows  of  places  that  ain't  worth  twenty  poun's 
a  year,  that  ain't  enough  for  me.  Let  me  'ave  a  go  at 
something  tony,  Now,  Mr.  'Uncote,  you  let  me  run 
you  up  a  little  'ouse  in  the  Marlborough  Road.  Do  it 
for  yer  in  first  class  style.  Wot  d'yer  say  to  'Lisbethan  ? 
with  the  plaster  painted  up  nice  to  look  like  beams,  an' 
a  gable  or  two ;  they  don'  corst  much  more  really.  And 
I  allus  say  there's  nothin'  like-  a  porch  to  give  a  'ouse 
tone,  with  some  art  noovo  glass.  Abart  ten  rooms.  Do 
it  for  yer  for  fifteen  'undred  quid."  He  nudged  him. 
"What  say?" 

Huncote  edged  away;  this  was  horrible.  Here  in- 
deed was  George  Green  working  with  the  energy  that 
had  made  him.  One  word  and  up  came  the  idea,  the 


WAVERING  WINGS  103 

whole  house,  its  riot  of  bastard  styles,  its  accommoda- 
tion, its  cost,  and  behind  it,  driving  it,  the  fierce  will  of 
George  Green,  conqueror. 

Huncote  found  excuses.  He  had  not  made  up  his 
mind ;  he  had  no  money.  George  Green  said  no  more. 
He  went  away;  he  could  wait  and  try  again.  He  had 
often  waited  and  tried  again  in  his  forty-five  years,  and 
he  was  ready  to  go  on.  So  that  was  it :  George  Green, 
sensualist,  behind  the  purity  which  whipped  his  impure 
desires;  George  Green,  builder,  behind  the  Committee 
which  gave  out  plumbing  orders,  used  cement,  bricks, 
gravel.  It  was  like  a  watch-dog,  this  horrible  lucidity. 
And  Platt  was  visible  too,  Platt  of  "  The  Golden  Stair- 
case ",  Platt  of  "  Dante's  First  Sight  of  Beatrice  ",  pre- 
paring the  way  to  a  safe  seat.  The  men  behind  the 
movement,  men  fallible.  For  a  shattering  moment 
Huncote  saw  the  movement  as  fallible  as  they. 

Ill 

And  yet  he  did  not  refuse  to  join  the  Committee 
when,  rather  suddenly,  at  the  end  of  April  he  was 
nominated.  Suddenly?  It  seemed  suddenly  and  yet 
it  was  not,  for  Green,  working  as  usual  on  lines  ob- 
scured, came  to  him  two  days  after  this  conversation. 

"  You  orter  be  on  the  Committee,  Mr.  'Uncote.  The 
first  time  as  I  set  eyes  on  yer,  I  says  to  Mr.  Churton, 
I  says,  '  That's  the  gent.  We  want  more  like  'im.' ' 
His  little  dark  eyes  grew  smaller  and  more  brilliant. 
"  There's  a  vacancy,  there  allus  is  a  vacancy."  He 
rolled  over  Huncote's  protests.  "  Leave  it  all  ter  me. 
Oh,  no,  there  won't  be  no  opposition,  I'll  put  it  across 
'em  if  there  is." 

And  somehow  within  a  few  weeks  Huncote  found 
himself  paralysed  into  accepting  this  nomination.  He 
was  entangled  too  in  a  conversation  which  hideously 
connected  with  the  previous  one  about  the  house  he 


ought  to  build  in  the  fly-fishing  school.  "  Go  on,  Mr. 
'Uncote,"  said  the  voice  of  the  siren,  "  I'm  not  trying 
to  rush  yer ;  'ave  a  little  'ouse  if  yer  want  it ;  pay  wot 
yer  like  and  'ave  wot  yer  like,  that's  wot  I  allus  says." 

Huncote  was  nudged  and  helplessly  found  himself 
saying  he'd  think  it  over,  just  as  helplessly  as  he  had 
accepted  the  nomination.  He  could  not  stand  up  to 
this  man.  Purity,  building,  and  committee  wangling, 
it  was  all  too  much  for  him.  George  Green  talked  a  lot 
about  wangling;  Huncote  did  not  quite  know  what  it 
was,  but  anyhow  he  was  wangled  on  to  the  Committee 
within  a  fortnight,  and  every  day  he  grew  more  afraid 
that  he  would  also  be  wangled  into  the  house  in  Marl- 
borough  Road. 

He  entered  the  Committee-room  with  a  distinct  sense 
of  promotion.  It  was  a  wilfully  official  room ;  the  walls 
were  decorated  solely  with  photos  of  lay  football  teams, 
quotations  from  Sesame  and  Lilies;  the  chairs  had  been 
selected  hard  enough  to  expedite  business.  It  was  not 
too  stunning,  however,  for  by  now  Huncote  knew  most 
of  the  members :  Churton,  ex-officio,  Platt  of  the  Temple 
Club,  Miss  Miskin,  who  that  day  still  looked  like  a  wet 
lizard  but  was  not  hysterical.  There  was  Mrs.  Ram- 
sey too,  and  a  woman  whom  Huncote  did  not  know. 
She  was  the  wife  of  a  Progressive  County  Councillor 
and  watched  Charlie's  interests  inside  the  Settlement 
while  Charlie  himself  kept  out  and  did  the  chapels. 
(St.  Panwich  had  done  the  usual  thing:  after  electing 
Sir  Henry  Govan  as  its  Conservative  M.P.  it  had  felt 
sorry  and  returned  the  anonymous  Charlie  as  Progres- 
sive for  the  L.C.C.)  She  never  said  anything,  she  just 
watched. 

Churton  read  at  trained  speed  the  minutes  of  the  last 
meeting.  They  were  signed  by  Platt,  the  day's  chair- 
man. There  were  no  checks,  no  jocularities,  even 
though  this  was  a  Monday;  probably  the  chairs  were 
too  hard.  Churton  reported  the  yield  of  an  appeal  for 


WAVERING  WINGS  105 

funds.  This  was  for  the  purchase  of  more  autotypes, 
as  the  Settlement  endowment  was  enough  only  to  keep 
up  the  fabric  and  pay  the  secretary.  Indeed  there 
seemed  to  be  trouble  which  Huncote  did  not  understand 
between  the  Committee  and  the  Trustees.  So  far  as 
he  could  gather  the  Trustees  refused  to  invest  a  thou- 
sand pounds'  worth  of  drawn  bonds  in  some  remuner- 
ative stock  proposed  by  the  Committee. 

"  Perfectly  scandalous,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsey.  "  We've 
no  power  at  all  and  think  of  the  work  we  have  to  do." 
There  was  a  pause  of  approval.  Miss  Miskin  fiercely 
added  that  the  Trustees  were  doing  all  they  could  to  kill 
their  work  and  that  this  reduction  of  their  income  by 
fifteen  pounds  was  evidence  of  it.  At  last  Platt  inter- 
vened, his  intention  being  to  get  on  good  terms  with 
both  Trustees  and  Committee,  and  promised  to  draft  a 
letter  to  the  Trustees,  suggesting  a  compromise. 

A  vote  for  repairing  the  leaky  roof  of  the  east  wing 
was  passed.  "  Only  a  slate  or  two,"  said  George  Green, 
"  leave  it  to  my  man  and  me ;  me  an'  'im'll  do  it  at 
corst  price." 

Churton  reported  on  the  arrangements  for  the  dance 
in  another  fortnight,  which  caused  further  acidity. 

"  If  you  ask  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsey,  "  there's  more 
harm  than  good  done  by  these  dances.  We  live  among 
a  loose  population  which  it  is  our  business  to  raise,  not 
to  degrade." 

"  Surely  there's  nothing  degrading  about  a  dance, 
Mrs.  Ramsey,"  said  Platt  suavely. 

"  I  don't  say  there  is,  and  I'm  not  going  to  talk  reli- 
gion though  you  all  know  my  views.  I've  come  into 
this  Lay  Settlement  setting  aside  my  deepest  feelings." 
Murmur  of  approval  from  Miss  Miskin.  "  And  we  all 
know  that  the  ramifications  of  the  white  slave  traf- 
fic .  .  ." 

For  several  minutes  Mrs.  Ramsey  exposed  the  soul- 
market  which  might  or  might  not  be  established  within 


106     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

a  Settlement  dance,  until  at  last,  and  in  the  nick  of 
time,  she  was  interrupted  by  Miss  Miskin.  Said  the 
lizard : 

"  And  they  get  very  hot,  and  when  they're  hot  they 
have  too  much  to  drink.  This  Settlement  does  not  take 
enough  notice  of  the  drink  problem  ..." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Miskin,"  said  Platt,  "  but 
we  supply  lemonade." 

"  They  go  to  the  public  house  during  the  intervals," 
snarled  Miss  Miskin. 

"And  greater  evils  follow,"  her  ally,  Mrs.  Eamsey, 
went  on. 

It  was  all  Churton  and  Platt  could  do,  with  a  little 
help  from  Huncote,  to  explain  that  even  if  the  dance 
ended  in  all  the  men  being  drunk  and  all  the  girls  being 
kidnapped  to  Buenos  Ayres,  the  posters  were  out,  and 
it  would  have  to  happen.  The  Committee  slowly  re- 
solved into  grumbling  consideration  of  the  decay  of  the 
area  railings.  The  anonymous  Mrs.  Charlie  remained 
all  through  eloquently  watchful.  She  was  like  a  me- 
chanical tiger  in  the  attitude  of  springing,  but  with  the 
spring  broken.  Huncote  did  not  pay  much  attention 
to  the  next  proceedings,  for  this  sensation  of  seeing 
things  through  ground  glass  was  on  him  still.  Mrs. 
Eamsey  and  Miss  Miskin  were  showing  him  their  fierce 
hatred  of  the  pleasure  which  they  helped  to  organise; 
the  spinster,  rather  soured,  seemed  to  have  come  in  to 
make  other  lives  sour,  though  she  did  not  know  it. 
Doubtless  she  meant  well.  "  Those  are  the  worst,"  he 
thought,  with  sudden  cynicism.  And  Mrs.  Ramsey, 
fuming  against  immorality,  was  filling  his  mind  with 
thoughts  of  immorality.  They  seemed  so  queer,  these 
fierce  busybodies,  and  brought  out  in  such  sharp  relief 
by  suave  Platt,  so  determined  to  be  universally  popular. 
Platt  smiled  on  Huncote  a  smile  that  said :  "  Let  me 
see,  you've  got  a  lodger's  vote  in  Clare  Street,  haven't 
you  ?  "  Huncote  hated  him. 


WAVERING  WINGS  107 

Later  Fighting  Bill,  who  was  not  a  member  of  the 
Committee  but  had  been  co-opted  by  a  sub-committee, 
was  admitted  to  decide  whether  women  should  be  ad- 
mitted to  the  Progress  Arms.  The  report,  which  was 
signed  by  him,  the  anonymous  Mrs.  Charlie,  and  Miss 
Miskin,  left  the  Committee  much  embarrassed,  for  the 
Fighting  Parson's  attitude  had  been :  "  Let  them  all 
come  into  the  Progress  Arms,  and  let's  have  beer  in- 
stead of  cocoa,"  while  Miss  Miskin's  view  was  that  the 
Progress  Arms  should  be  treated  as  was  Gomorrah. 
As  for  the  anonymous  Mrs.  Charlie,  she  had  taken  a 
line  so  skilfully  intermediate  that  it  was  indistinguish- 
able. And  the  debate,  which  clearly  had  raged  in  the 
meetings  of  the  sub-committee,  began  again. 

"  One  thing  leads  to  another,"  said  Miss  Miskin  ob- 
stinately. "  If  you  let  women  in  you  let  in  the  wrong 
kind  of  cheerfulness." 

Mrs.  Eamsey  protested. 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,  Mrs.  Ramsey,"  the 
lizard  snapped.  "  All  I  say  is  that  if  you  mix  the 
sexes  in  a  place  like  that  the  demand  arises  for  some- 
thing stronger  than  cocoa." 

"  D'you  suggest  it's  the  women  who  demand  beer  ? " 
asked  Fighting  Bill. 

"  No,  Mr.  Ford,  I've  already  replied  in  sub-commit- 
tee to  that  preposterous  question.  At  any  rate  I  do  not 
want  the  women  in." 

"  Well,  I  do,"  said  Fighting  Bill.  Then  with  irri- 
tating affectation :  "  Bless  'em !  " 

The  debate  was  complicated  by  the  intervention  of 
Mrs.  Ramsey  who  saw  dangers  other  than  drink  in  the 
frequentation  of  the  Progress  Arms  by  women.  The 
position  seemed  to  be  that  the  men  seemed  disinclined 
to  go  without  their  sweethearts  and  wives,  and  that  the 
Progress  Arms  might  as  well  be  shut  up  for  all  the 
patronage  it  secured. 

"  Let  it  be  shut  up,"  screamed  Miss  Miskin. 


"Beer  instead  of  cocoa/'  growled  the  Fighting  Par- 
son. 

It  was  like  rival  war  cries.  Huncote  interfered, 
pleaded  for  a  little  Liberalism,  pointed  out  that  if  the 
Progress  Arms  did  not  admit  women  the  King's  Arms 
did.  He  was  sat  upon  by  both  the  women,  while  the 
parson  laughed  and  Platt  attempted  to  soothe  every- 
body. Then  George  Green  was  drawn  in.  "  I'm  not 
one  for  the  drink,"  he  said,  fixing  Miss  Miskin  with 
an  imploring  eye,  "  been  a  teetotaler  all  my  life,  but 
wot  I  says  is  this,  if  a  woman's  going  to  make  a  beast 
of  'erself  she  don'  want  to  go  to  the  Progress  Arms 
ter  do  it,  not  she !  " 

Platt  came  in  with  a  diplomatic  suggestion  that  it 
should  be  tried  for  a  month.  For  the  first  time  that 
afternoon  the  anonymous  Mrs.  Charlie  seemed  moved 
to  enthusiasm.  George  Green  seemed  disappointed. 
Miss  Miskin  could  not  very  well  refuse,  any  more  than 
he  could,  and  so  very  soon  it  was  decided  to  try  for  a 
month  the  admission  of  women  to  the  Progress  Arms. 
Very  soon  afterwards,  in  the  midst  of  heaviness,  when 
Ford  had  left  the  Committee  after  telling  Huncote  in 
an  undertone  that  if  Canterbury  had  never  abandoned 
Rome  this  scene  would  not  have  occurred,  the  proceed- 
ings closed  on  one  of  the  frequent  wrangles  between 
George  Green  and  the  rest  of  the  Committee  because 
he  ended  by  lighting  his  pipe.  An  acrid  discussion 
showed  that  this  was  looked  upon  as  disrespectful  to 
the  ladies. 

Later  in  the  day  Huncote  was  still  thinking  of  these 
people,  together  and  separately.  Separately  of  Platt, 
giving  his  labour  so  that  a  constituency  might  learn  to 
know  him,  of  Churton,  paid  and  prostrate  before  the 
sublime,  if  not  very  clear  vision  of  his  masters,  of  Miss 
Miskin,  anxious  that  nobody  should  drink,  of  Mrs. 
Ramsey  that  nobody  should  stray.  He  thought  of 
George  Green  too,  who  in  a  flashing  sentence  had  told 


WAVERING  WINGS  109 

him,  without  knowing  it,  why  he  supported  the  admis- 
sion of  women  to  the  Progress  Arms :  "  They'll  come 
right  enough,  you'll  see.  The  Arms  won't  be  big 
enough :  in  a  month  we'll  'ave  to  extend  them,  throw  out 
a  wing  at  the  back.  What  ? " 

It  was  dreadful,  it  was  all  so  small,  so  inefficient ;  it 
would  have  been  better,  thought  Huncote,  to  fall  among 
highwaymen  than  among  peculators. 

IV 

Like  a  child  that  has  been  hurt  Huncote  went  to  St. 
Olaves,  not  telling  himself  that  his  mother  would  com- 
fort him,  but  instinctively.  Within  a  few  minutes  he 
knew  that  his  mother  could  never  do  much  more  for 
him  than  be  untidy  and  pleasing.  So  he  did  not  say 
what  he  had  wanted  to  say,  or  discuss  with  her  whether, 
as  she  had  once  so  acutely  suggested,  he  should  persist 
in  the  error  of  staying  in  the  Settlement  when  he  no 
longer  believed  in  it.  Instead  he  called  on  the  Dean 
and  tried,  which  was  not  easy,  to  be  respectful  to  the 
church  and  loyal  to  the  laity.  And  everybody  talked  to 
him  about  the  Settlement  as  they  talk  of  the  army  to  a 
soldier.  So  he  who  had  come  to  throw  off  the  organisa- 
tion found  himself  recruiting  for  it.  The  big  dance 
was  coming  off,  and  women  helpers  could  not  be  too 
many.  Elspeth  refused. 

"  No,  thanks !  I  know  the  sort  of  thing,  a  collection 
of  all  the  undesirables  in  the  district  and  no  enquiries 
made." 

"  We  don't  have  the  tickets  countersigned  by  the 
C.O.S.,  if  that's  what  you  mean,"  said  Huncote  acridly. 
Brother  and  sister  then  sulked  for  three  meals. 

Flora  was  different.  "Oh,  I'd  love  to  come;  it's 
sweet  of  you,  Roger."  She  put  a  pointed  little  hand 
upon  his  elbow  and  ogled  him.  "  I  love  dancing,"  she 
said. 


110     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Her  brother  patted  the  little  hand.  "You  know,  I 
don't  promise  you  a  life  guard." 

She  laughed.  "  Roger,  dear,  even  a  railway  guard 
would  be  a  blessing  in  a  place  like  this."  • 

This  was  not  exactly  social  zeal,  Roger  thought,  but 
still  .  .  . 

The  dance  was  on  a  Saturday  night  in  the  big  lecture 
room.  The  forms  stood  against  the  walls,  and  every- 
thing had  been  violently  washed;  a  new  text  had  been 
added  to  the  William  Morris  and  the  Ruskin,  reading: 
"  The  Peace  that  passeth  all  Understanding  be  upon 
this  House  ",  etc.  The  artist  had  forgotten  the  "  n  " 
in  "  understanding ",  which  was  very  fortunate,  for 
two  out  of  three  of  the  helpers,  as  Huncote  entered  the 
dressing-room,  asked  him  whether  "  the  peace  that 
passed  all  udderstanding  ",  etc.  He  grew  rather  tired 
of  that  joke  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

When  he  went  into  the  hall  the  couples  were  already 
dancing  stiffly  to  the  strains  of  the  Settlement  band.  It 
was  a  good  band  except  that  there  was  a  piccolo  in  it. 

"  You  see,"  said  Miss  Underwood,  "  we  had  to  let 
the  piccolo  in.  It  would  have  been  so  hard  on  the  poor 
fellow  if  we  hadn't." 

It  was  not  yet  warm  in  the  hall,  for  only  twenty 
couples  were  dancing,  and  of  those  over  a  dozen  were 
boys  and  girls  of  the  people,  partnered  with  enormous 
self-consciousness  by  serious  young  men  from  the  uni- 
versities and  imported  West-enders  who  were  raking 
their  brains  to  find  something  more  suitable  to  talk  of 
than  the  Riviera  and  winter  sports.  But  all  along  the 
sides  of  the  hall  was  a  staid  mob  that  overflowed  into  lob- 
bies and  corridors.  These  were  quite  young  girls  from 
the  laundry,  step-girls  at  twopence  a  morning,  pale  girls 
who  worked  at  home  at  box  and  buttonhole  making,  and 
a  rowdier,  fresh-faced  kind,  abundantly  shawled,  that 
sold  flowers.  At  a  little  respectful  distance  were  the 
men,  young  artisans  and  shopboys,  and  overgrown  tele- 


WAVERING  WINGS  111 

graph  boys,  proud  of  their  uniform  and  disinclined  to 
consort  with  anything  less  than  a  boy  scout.  Little  by 
little  the  talk  increased  though  still  exclusively  mono- 
sexual:  there  was  no  blending  of  the  sexes  yet,  except 
that  sweethearts  kept  together  with  a  mixture  of  satis- 
faction and  rigid  conventionality. 

The  band  banged  and  ripped  from  waltz  to  mazurka 
and  on  to  a  quadrille.  Churton  came  in  a  little  anxious, 
though  cadaverous  and  beaming.  At  once  he  was  or- 
ganising, and  Huncote,  suffering  a  pang  of  self-con- 
sciousness, was  thrust  into  the  arms  of  something  fat 
and  pink,  with  a  row  of  sham  pearls  round  its  neck, 
that  giggled  and  blushed  while  he  blushed  and  stam- 
mered. Its  surname  he  did  not  know,  but  only  its 
name,  Hilda.  They  danced.  The  girl  danced  well, 
and  for  a  moment  all  was  well,  but  Huncote  knew  he 
would  have  to  say  something  and,  struggle  as  he  might, 
he  could  think  only  of  the  word  Hilda.  At  last,  with 
a  great  effort,  he  brought  out :  "  Very  hot,  isn't 
it?" 

She  tossed  fair  curls.  "Oh,  I  don't  think  so,  not 
for  this  time  of  year." 

Huncote  paused.  Should  he  talk  about  the  time  of 
year  ?  He  felt  impelled  to  ask  her  what  her  work  was 
and  remembered  just  in  time  that  they  were  all  ladies 
and  gentlemen  that  night.  Still,  he  had  to  lead  some- 
thing. He  was  skilful. 

"  That  depends,"  he  said,  "  whether  you  go  out  a  lot 
during  the  day." 

"  I  don't  much ;  I'm  in  business,  you  see." 

This  was  not  very  informative ;  he  read  her  shopgirl, 
while  she  was  factory.  So  they  ploughed  on,  Hilda 
laughing  and  giggling  at  nothing,  while  he  talked  rather 
priggishly  about  the  dancing  classes  which  the  Settle- 
ment had  been  running  of  late  months. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  need  them,"  said  the  girl,  rather  acid, 
and  Huncote  realised  that  this  had  been  taken  as  a  re- 


112     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

flection  on  her  dancing.  He  was  glad  when  it  was  over. 
Fortunately  they  did  not  have  to  sit  out. 

He  did  not  at  once  begin  to  dance  again,  for  there 
had  been  a  slight  increase  in  the  number  of  couples. 
He  saw  Churton,  dark  and  long  as  a  day  without 
caresses,  in  the  embrace  of  a  young  woman  still  longer, 
it  seemed,  because  she  was  thinner ;  he  saw  Miss  Under- 
wood, very  languid  and  negligent,  guiding  without  ap- 
parent effort  the  uncertain  steps  of  Fred  Beesby,  the 
young  man  who  had  "  sorced  the  beak." 

Quite  insensibly,  as  if  obeying  a  class  custom,  he 
found  himself  clustering  with  the  men  of  whom  there 
were  still  a  good  many  groups  segregated  opposite  a  lot 
of  girls  who  conversed  in  shrill  undertones  and  held 
each  other's  hands  and  waists.  He  edged  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  men,  hardly  knowing  how  to  begin  to  talk 
to  them.  Platt  did;  Platt  always  talked  to  the  men, 
for  women's  suffrage  had  not  yet  come  in.  He  envied 
Platt,  he  envied  the  beam  upon  his  legal  face,  even  the 
reassuring  benevolence  of  his  forehead.  He  heard  a 
scrap  of  a  sentence. 

" — Easter  soon.  We'll  have  to  be  thinking  of 
cricket ;  that's  a  good  manly  sport." 

George  Green,  dancing  with  a  red-haired  girl  over 
whom  he  hung,  rather  close-pressed,  threw  him  as  he 
passed  an  oily  wink. 

Several  of  the  young  men  glanced  at  Huncote,  then 
ostentatiously  turned  away.  They  were  jolly  and 
chaffing  as  no  girls  were  there  to  make  them  self-con- 
scious ;  he  heard  an  argument  as  to  whether  one  of  them 
preferred  ginger  beer.  There  seemed  to  be  a  lot  of 
guffawing  over  this ;  then  somebody  in  a  very  tight  blue 
suit  and  a  very  high  collar,  obviously  a  clerk,  said: 
"  All  right,  'Erb,  I  don't  want  to  cast  any  nasturtiums 
on  you !  " 

Huncote  pondered  over  this  for  some  time.  Then  a 
young  man,  who  had  been  watching  the  others  with  an 


WAVERING  WINGS  113 

air  so  sardonic  that  it  could  not  be  natural,  addressed 
him. 

"  You're  Mr.  Huncote,"  said  the  young  man.  Then, 
definitely :  "  My  name's  Caldwell,  Albert  Caldwell. 
They  call  me  Bert  mostly." 

"  Oh,  good  evening,"  said  Huncote,  uncertain,  half- 
putting  out  his  hand.  The  young  man  did  not  take  it. 
He  was  of  the  middle  size,  fairly  sturdy,  looked  about 
twenty-eight,  and  was  the  ordinary  kind  of  blue-eyed, 
fair-haired  young  artisan. 

"  Why  aren't  you  dancing  ?  "  asked  Huncote. 

"  I  might  ask  you  that,"  said  Caldwell,  "  only  you're 
an  official." 

Huncote  laughed.  "  Oh,  don't  call  me  anything  so 
big;  I'm  only  helping." 

The  young  man  grew  hostile.  "  Helping !  If  only 
people  wouldn't  help  us !  It's  helping  keeps  the  people 
down.  You  can't  help  'em  up,  Mr.  Huncote;  you  can 
only  tread  on  their  faces  when  they're  down." 

Huncote  looked  at  him  rather  surprised.  This  was 
not  party  conversation. 

"  Surely,"  he  said,  "  we  don't  tread  on  the  people's 
faces." 

"  No,"  said  Caldwell  ferociously,  as  if  the  presence 
of  the  "  swell "  galled  him,  "  I  only  wish  you  would. 
What  you  do  to  the  people's  faces  is  to  stroke  them,  and 
so  there  they  lie  in  the  gutter."  He  raised  an  arm  and 
began  to  shout. 

"  Steady,  old  Keir  Hardie,"  cried  one  of  his  friends. 
But  Bert  took  no  notice,  and  within  a  few  seconds  the 
full  socialist  case  was  being  stated  to  Huncote.  Com- 
bined with  the  surrounding  conversation  it  made  a 
strange  mixture. 

"  Charity's  the  thing  that  makes  the  people  bear  what 
they  ought  to  learn  not  to  bear.  This  idea  of  stopping 
the  class  war,  this  Settlement  idea,  what  is  it  ?  " 

Chorus  of  ironic  parties :     "  Yes,  what  is  it  ? " 


Bert  turned  upon  the  group  with  ferocity.  "  You 
don't  want  to  know,  that's  why  you  ask."  He  returned 
to  Huncote  and  poured  upon  him  a  description  of  the 
depravity  and  degradation  and  other  words  in  "  d " 
from  which  he  excluded  "  damnation  "  (because  he  did 
not  believe  in  God)  to  which  the  people  were  subjected. 

And  yet  Huncote  could  not  fix  himself;  he  was  still 
hypnotised  by  the  ironic  parties,  by  the  arrival  of  an- 
other to  whom  somebody  said :  "  Good  evening,  my 
lord  duke!" 

Somehow  the  incipient  wrangle  was  stifled.  It  was 
Miss  Underwood  who  did  it.  She  came  up  to  ranting 
Bert  and  with  a  smile  told  those  who  were  laughing  at 
him  that  she  was  quite  on  their  side  but  also  on  his. 
"  Mr.  Caldwell,"  she  said,  "  I've  been  looking  for  you 
everywhere.  Do  you  know,  you  were  just  going  to  cut 
my  dance  ? "  The  eloquence  oozed  out  of  the  orator. 
He  blushed  violently.  "  Up  go  the  socialist  colours," 
said  a  whitey-green  boy,  but  Bert  was  too  overcome 
to  reply;  Theresa  held  him  because  he  had  nearly 
broken  his  word.  For  him  an  awful  risk!  She  was 
doing  more ;  she  was  chasing  the  girls  from  their  groups 
and,  two  by  two,  leading  them  to  the  men,  pairing  them 
off.  Huncote  liked  to  see  her  move;  she  moved  so 
easily,  like  a  lily  hardly  swaying  in  the  wind. 

"  And  you,  Mr.  Huncote,  come  along  with  me  and 
Mr.  Caldwell;  there's  somebody  I  want  you  to  dance 
with  very  particularly." 

Huncote  did  not  want  to  dance,  remembering  his 
other  partner,  but  what  was  he  to  do,  with  those  half- 
pathetic,  half -humorous  brown  eyes  fixed  upon  him? 
He  could  not  withstand  the  laughter  that  was  in  the 
curves  of  the  rather  loose  mouth.  Soon  he  stood  before 
a  dark  young  girl,  Miss  Groby.  For  a  moment,  as 
Theresa  danced  away  in  the  arms  of  Bert  Caldwell,  he 
was  uncertain.  Then,  and  quite  suddenly  it  seemed, 
everything  grew  easy.  It  was  as  if  a  change  had  come 


WAVERING  WINGS  115 

over  the  room;  many  more  couples  were  dancing  now, 
and  there  was  some  rowdiness  in  the  air;  people  talked 
louder,  and  Huncote's  heart  leapt  with  it  as  if  he  had 
been  snatched  up  with  many  other  young  things  and 
with  them  become  aware  of  youth. 

He  realised  that  he  had  been  staring  at  the  girl  while 
he  thought  of  something  else.  He  said :  "  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"  Granted,"  she  replied. 

He  looked  at  her  more  closely. 

His  perceptions  were  more  acute  now;  he  saw  that 
she  too  must  have  been  thinking  of  something  else,  for 
her  eyes  rested  away  from  him.  Indeed  they  followed 
Bert  Caldwell  as  he  went  away  with  Miss  Underwood. 
Sweethearts,  no  doubt ;  so  much  the  better.  It  led  natu- 
rally to  conversation.  They  began  to  dance.  Miss 
Groby  did  not  dance  well,  and  at  first  they  did  not  speak 
while  he  learnt  her  step.  Then  he  said : 

"  I've  just  been  talking  to  Mr.  Caldwell ;  I  think  you 
know  him  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Groby,  "he  does  go  on,  doesn't 
he?" 

Huncote  laughed  at  her  seriousness. 

"  Eyes  of  youth,"  he  said,  rather  priggishly ;  "  see 
the  dream  behind  the  shadow." 

Miss  Groby  looked  up  at  him  with  intense  serious- 
ness, evidently  interested,  evidently  not  understanding 
at  all.  As  they  looked  at  each  other  she  interested  him. 
Over  her  broad,  low  forehead,  its  whiteness  enriched  by 
a  touch  of  yellow,  a  mass  of  thick  black  hair,  done  in 
many  curls,  clustered  close.  As  they  danced  there  fell 
upon  it  from  the  lights  a  sheen,  sometimes  brown,  some- 
times violet.  The  eyes  that  looked  up  at  him  were  large 
and  very  dark  brown,  like  port  when  no  light  shines 
through  it.  They  looked  at  him  steadfast,  rather  far 
apart,  under  heavy  arched  brows  that  made  her  appear 
trustful.  She  could  be  shy,  but  just  then  she  was  not 


116     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

shy,  for  she  was  interested  by  the  sound  of  words  that 
meant  nothing,  but  caressed  her.  And  suddenly,  con- 
scious of  her  stare,  she  blushed.  It  was  the  faintest 
blush,  so  dark  was  she,  as  the  last  peering  of  the  sunset 
through  the  wing  of  dusk.  He  too  blushed  and  felt 
absurdly  young,  he  who  at  twenty-three  was  so  old. 
They  danced  on,  and  quickly  he  asked  her  whether  she 
liked  dancing,  as  if  to  relieve  the  tension  of  the  first 
moment. 

"  I  love  it,"  she  said  enthusiastically.  Then,  as  she 
trod  on  him :  "  Sorry.  You  see,  I  don't  get  much  of 
a  chance." 

He  asked  her  whether  she  never  went  to  dances  other 
than  those  of  the  Settlement.  It  seemed  that  she  did 
sometimes  with  —  with  friends  to  whom  she  later  al- 
luded with  a  blush  as  "  them."  Indeed  all  through 
that  dance  Huncote  was  a  little  puzzled  because  Miss 
Groby  never  said  "  he  " ;  she  said  "  they."  It  made 
him  wonder,  though  he  should  not  have  cared,  whether 
she  meant  Bert  Caldwell. 

And  so,  as  they  danced,  Miss  Groby  prattled  on, 
sometimes  simple,  sometimes  stilted.  She  was  half- 
natural  when  she  told  him  that  she  did  not  go  out  to 
work  but  washed  fine  lace  and  blouses  at  home;  then, 
when  Huncote  was  about  to  talk  of  the  washerwoman's 
trade,  Miss  Groby  grew  refined. 

"  I  get  a  good  deal  of  time  to  myself ;  that's  nice, 
don't  you  think  ?  " 

He  was  conscious  just  then  of  her  hand  in  his,  which 
he  could  feel  muscular  through  the  cotton  glove.  He 
said: 

"And  what  d'you  do  with  yourself  then?  D'you 
read  or  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'm  a  great  reader." 

Huncote  hesitated  to  ask  what  she  read,  but  already 
enthusiastic,  alive  to  herself,  Miss  Groby  abandoned 
books  in  general,  and  concentrating  upon  a  story  un- 


WAVERING  WINGS  117 

known  to  Huncote,  in  which  there  was  a  guardsman  and 
a  bad  foreign  princess,  began  to  tell  him  the  plot. 

He  was  not  so  relieved  as  the  other  time  when  his 
dance  was  done;  it  had  been  very  much  the  same,  for 
his  new  partner  wore  sham  pearls  just  like  the  first,  and 
it  had  been  the  same  kind  of  conversation.  He  sup- 
posed he  was  getting  used  to  the  atmosphere.  Indeed 
he  was,  for  he  grew  bolder;  it  grew  warmer,  introduc- 
tions were  offered  him,  and  he  accepted  them;  he  even 
danced  once  more  with  the  little  fat  rose.  In  a  break 
he  had  a  word  with  George  Green.  Green  had  to  relin- 
quish his  partner,  a  small,  pale  girl,  with  big  green  eyes 
and  a  very  red  mouth  that  drooped  like  the  lip  of  a 
lily.  The  builder  had,  it  seemed  to  Huncote,  been 
holding  the  girl  too  close.  When  her  new  partner  came, 
Green,  who  sat  by  her  side,  had  his  shoulder  upon  hers 
and  leant,  whispering  very  close  to  the  little  ear,  half- 
buried  in  pale  straight  hair. 

Green  winked  at  him.  "  I  watched  you  dancing, 
Mr.  'Uncote.  Yer  don't  give  the  girls  'arf  a  chance." 
He  nudged  him.  "  Yer  take  a  leaf  out  of  my  book." 
He  figured  his  attitude,  clearly  showing  that  his  hand 
would  grasp  his  partner  above  the  elbow :  "  The  gay 
fantastic,  eh  ? "  He  hugged  the  air  violently. 
"  That's  the  way,  Mr.  'Uncote.  Give  'em  a  little  bit 
o'  the  Boston  from  Paree ;  they  like  it,  bless  'em." 

Huncote  turned  away  disgusted.  He  could  not  fix 
the  disgustingness,  but  somehow  it  was  there.  When 
one  is  fat  one  ought  not  to  be  white,  or  if  one  is,  one 
should  not  dance.  Green  was  repulsive  just  then ;  with 
sweat  upon  his  face  he  was  like  a  bladder  of  lard  in 
hot  weather. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock;  the  character  of  the 
dance  had  changed.  No  stiffness  now  and  no  intro- 
ducing, but  partner-snatching  and  guffaws,  a  haze  in 
the  air,  making  the  lights  mysterious,  eyes  deeper, 
cheeks  brighter,  hair  more  brilliant  and  unruly.  He 


danced  with  two  more  girls,  and  a  third  led  him  into  a 
lancer  set  which,  as  the  hour  advanced,  turned  from  the 
drawing-room  kind  into  the  most  violent  kitchen  type. 
Again  he  danced  with  Miss  Grohy. 

He  did  not  remember  the  next  day  what  he  had  said ; 
nothing  of  any  importance.  But  it  was  nice  to  dance 
with  her  again.  She  smiled  at  him  as  he  came  up  to 
her;  he  had  seen  her  mouth,  so  agreeable,  he  thought, 
with  its  fullness  and  its  many  curves,  the  lips  parted 
and  upturned,  showing  dark  against  the  pale  honey  of 
her  skin. 

His  reserve  was  gone,  and  somehow  all  was  well.  He 
joked  with  Churton;  Platt  looked  funny  and  grand- 
fatherly;  he  even  challenged  Miss  Miskin  to  a  dance 
which  was  austerely  and  fortunately  refused  him.  Yes, 
there  was  something  in  the  Settlement  after  all  if  of 
so  much  youth  it  could  make  so  much  gaiety.  In  the 
refectory  a  little  later,  as  he  drank  a  glass  of  lemonade 
with  his  partner,  he  saw  Miss  Underwood  watching  him 
with  a  faint,  half -ironic  smile.  He  smiled  back  at  her 
rather  more  broadly  than  he  meant,  as  if  he  could  so 
smile  at  all  the  world.  She  was  charming,  he  thought. 
Again  he  had  to  think  of  a  lily  or  rather  of  a  reed, 
tall,  slim,  a  little  disdainful.  She  came  closer,  and 
her  left  eyebrow  rose.  "  Enjoying  yourself  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  Rather,"  he  said,  suddenly  boyish. 

"  That's  right,"  said  Miss  Underwood  comfortably. 
The  deep  brown  eyes  seemed  veiled  as  if  by  the  shadow 
of  long  downcast  lashes,  and  Huncote  for  a  second  felt  a 
little  too  young. 

Much  later,  as  he  went  to  sleep,  confused  thought 
passed  through  his  brain.  First  Miss  Underwood,  just 
gracious;  all  those  people  he  had  seen  that  night,  so 
young,  a  little  gross  in  their  merriment  but  —  so  merry 
in  their  grossness.  He  thought  of  the  young  men  so 
brisk,  of  Miss  Groby  and, of  the  tender  mouth  turned 


WAVERING  WINGS  119 

back  upon  the  pale  honey  of  her  skin,  but  much  more  of 
the  Settlement,  a  good  fairy,  author  of  the  night's  de- 
lights. Insensibly  from  enthusiasm  he  passed  into 
dream. 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTH 

ANDEOMEDA' 


THE  lecturer  droned  on  amiably.  He  had  analysed 
Sartor  Resartus;  he  had  been  mildly  humorous  about 
the  pronunciation  of  Teuf elsdrockh ;  he  had  jarred 
Huncote's  nerves  by  smiling  at  a  group  of  women  and 
saying  that  in  mixed  company  he  dared  not  pursue  be- 
yond trousers  the  preoccupations  of  Carlyle,  and  they 
had  laughed,  servilely  laughed.  Smokily,  gloomily, 
fell  the  light,  for  the  globes  were  dirty.  Feet  shifted, 
and  because  it  had  rained,  a  scent  of  moist  clothes  and 
ill-washed  bodies  rose  up.  Huncote,  on  one  of  the  cross 
seats  near  the  platform,  looked  at  the  audience,  many 
women,  most  of  them  of  the  class  that  improves  its 
mind,  artisans  rather  eager,  the  sort  of  artisan  that 
knows  its  Spencer,  its  Darwin,  and  its  John  Lubbock. 
Huncote  watched  with  half-amusement  a  young  man 
who  was  slowly  being  garrotted  by  a  cygnian  collar ;  he 
was  making  notes.  He  was  making  notes  nervously,  it 
seemed  indiscriminately,  as  a  magpie  collects  spoons. 
The  lecturer  said: 

"  And  if  we  look  upon  it  broadly  enough  it  is  certain 
that  genius  is  an  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains." 

The  strangulated  youth  made  a  note. 

The  lecturer  wandered  off  into  the  life  of  Frederick 
the  Great;  he  linked  up  the  Prussian  king  with  the 
heroes  which  should  perhaps  be  worshipped ;  he  dared  to 
elaborate  that  "  silence  was  deep  as  eternity."  He  ex- 
plained that  "  speech  was  shallow  as  time." 


ANDROMEDA  121 

Still  the  feet  shifted  and  the  clothes  steamed;  the 
young  man  shifted  within  the  magic  circle  that  marked 
him  from  a  Fenchurch  Street  gehenna.  And  then  a 
little  later  the  lecturer  alluded  to  Carlyle  as  the  sage  of 
Chelsea. 

Huncote  observed  the  secretary  of  the  Mutual  Im- 
provement Society.  He  was  just  a  smile  for  ever  and 
ever.  He  had  created  the  lecture  society  of  which  was 
to  be  born  a  world.  Smokily,  gloomily,  fell  the  light 
and  with  it  the  misty  illuminations  of  the  surly  old 
Scotch  beast  and  his  puny  apoplexies.  Long  before  the 
lecture  was  over  Huncote  hated  the  man  and  this  ac- 
complice audience  who  were  indeed  making  fingent  and 
fictile  the  ruggedness  he  had  once  loved.  He  did  not 
follow  very  closely  what  was  being  said,  catching  a  frag- 
ment now  and  then,  a  gentle  regret  that  the  sage  "  had 
taken  such  liberties  with  the  King's  English."  He 
thought  of  himself  within  this  system,  these  people 
being  loaded  with  commonplaces  by  the  commonplace, 
absorbing  scraps  of  secondhand  thought,  making  an 
idea  out  of  a  bit  of  Carlyle  without  having  as  a  cor- 
rective say  a  bit  of  Montaigne.  Scraps,  always  scraps ; 
here  they  were,  all  of  them  in  St.  Panwich,  trying  of 
humanity  to  make  royalties  and  actually  placing  upon 
the  shoulders  of  men  royal  robes  while  leaving  them  ill- 
shod.  He  thought  of  the  work  he  had  been  doing  these 
last  weeks,  of  the  loan  exhibition,  of  the  reproduction  of 
the  Venus  de  Milo  before  which  two  young  men,  think- 
ing themselves  unobserved,  had  nudged  each  other. 
One  of  them  had  said :  "  Very  'ot !  "  Exactly  what 
George  Green  had  said!  It  was  all  wrong;  at  least 
nothing  was  right,  and  he  found  himself  quoting  a 
scrap  of  John  Davidson: 

"Now  I  fear  the  light; 
I  shrink  from  every  sight; 
I  see  there's  nothing  right; 
I  hope  to  die  to-night." 


122     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

All  solemn,  all  turned  to  stone.  The  condition  of  the 
people :  petrified  or  putrefied  ?  Which  was  best  ?  A 
revolt  seized  him,  for  here  was  the  quality  of  difference 
between  the  lecture  and  the  dance;  there  youth  and 
gaiety,  coarse  perhaps  but  yet  precious  because  rare  as 
spikenard ;  here  the  locusts  eating  years.  A  hot  feeling 
of  enthusiastic  memory  came  over  him  as  he  thought 
of  the  dance ;  it  was  like  feeling  by  contrast,  now  that 
he  hated  these  people  in  their  smugness,  learning,  and 
thinking  that  by  learning  they  would  know;  when  he 
remembered  the  dance,  where  they  did  not  think,  but 
felt,  he  glowed,  he  loved  them. 

A  little  of  his  emotion  came  out  soon  after  as  he 
talked  to  Churton.  The  lecturer  was  being  thanked, 
and  the  young  man,  who  by  this  looked  like  a  sardine 
collared  in  a  fishing-net,  had  made  a  note  (in  memory 
of  Lubbock)  that  the  true  university  is  a  collection  of 
books. 

"  How  did  you  like  it  ?  "  asked  Churton,  very  serious. 

Huncote  laughed.     "  Fudge,"  he  said. 

Churton  looked  shocked,  raised  his  eyebrows. 
"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  "  a  good  eighteenth  century 
word,  a  slight  anachronism.  c  Rubbish '  would  have 
appealed  to  the  sage  of  .  .  ." 

"  I  beg  you,  Churton,  do  not  call  him  the  sage  of 
Chelsea.  The  sixty  people  who  came  here  to-night  and 
who  have  done  you  no  harm  will  scatter  that  name 
through  the  generations." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  have  against  it,"  said  Chur- 
ton, "  but  you  don't  seem  pleased." 

"  Pleased  ?  "  said  Huncote  .bitterly.  "  Good  heav- 
ens, Churton,  you  don't  think  we're  doing  any  good  at 
this  game,  giving  these  people  scraps  and  tags,  giving 
them  an  idea  without  its  corrective,  letting  them  mix 
Goethe  with  l  The  Rosary.*  Oh,  I  can  hardly  explain, 
but  don't  you  see  what  I'm  driving  at  ?  I  mean  what's 
the  good  of  giving  these  people  a  sight  of  literature 


ANDROMEDA  123 

with  blinkers  on?  Give  them  the  whole  thing  or  give 
them  nothing.  These  scraps  only  make  them  smug." 
He  laughed :  "I  can  hear  half  of  them  quoting  a  tag 
next  week  when  the  boiler  goes  wrong." 

"  We're  not  a  university,"  said  Churton  loftily,  "  and 
the  lecturer  is  not  an  encyclopaedia." 

"  I'd  want  to  be  one,"  said  Huncote. 

Churton  threw  him  an  eloquent  look,  a  look  so  elo- 
quent that  it  was  a  whisper  and  a  pat,  a  "  hush  "  and 
"  there,  there  "  look. 

"  Self-sufficient  young  man,"  he  said,  "  the  greatest 
of  faults  is  to  be  conscious  of  none,  as,"  he  wickedly 
added,  "  the  sage  of  .  .  ." 

Huncote  grew  vicious. 

"  Anyhow,  Carlyle  cribbed  that  from  Pliny." 

It  was  an  acid  moment,  and  there  were  other  acid 
moments  to  come,  moments  of  weariness,  moments  when 
Huncote,  whose  serenity  was  gone,  lost  his  temper  with 
the  representative  ministers  of  various  sects  and  told 
one  of  them  that  one  could  not  see  Christ  for  their 
crosses;  there  was  a  more  bitter  moment  still  to  come 
when  the  last  scale  of  illusion  fell  from  George 
Green. 

In  those  days  there  was  a  penny  weekly,  called  The 
Jolly  Roger,  which  made  it  its  business  to  unearth  the 
decently  buried  corpses  of  scandals  and  shamelessly  ex- 
pose them  to  the  public  eye.  A  justice  of  the  peace 
could  not  say  that  poachers  should  be  shot,  or  a  servant 
girl  have  an  illegitimate  baby,  or  a  welsher  change  his 
address,  without  the  Jolly  Roger  arming  for  an  expedi- 
tion. Having  lost  two  libel  actions  instituted  by  bish- 
ops it  turned  its  attention  to  the  Settlements;  its  com- 
missioners joined  the  workers  of  Toynbee  Hall  and  of 
the  Passmore-Edwards  Settlement.  In  vain :  the  Jolly 
Roger  had  to  wash  its  hands  of  them  for  no  fault  could 
be  found  there.  But  after  glancing  at  the  Leysian  Mis- 
sion they  discovered  something  in  the  St.  Panwich  Lay 


124:    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Settlement.     The  something  came  out  in  a  long  article 
which  made  the  placard  for  the  week: 


Isn't  George 

GEEEN? 
(I  don't  think) 


The  gist  of  the  article  was  in  one  of  its  paragraphs : 

...  so  you  see,  the  Board  of  Guardians  wanted  that  bit 
of  land.  Had  to  have  it  in  fact.  So  the  Hon.  Fitzallan 
said  to  the  other  guardians :  "  Haw !  Haw !  We've  got  to 
have  that  land,  eh  what  ?  How  can  we  get  it  ? "  And 
would  you  believe  it  that  one  of  the  other  guardians  said: 
"  Leave  it  to  me  and  me  man,  me  and  'im'll  do  it."  They 
did.  This  guardian  went  along  to  his  brother-in-law  George 
(alleged)  Green,  and  George  (incorruptible  sea)  Green,  said : 
"  It  doesn't  belong  to  me,  I've  no  interest  in  it."  But  why 
or  how  did  it  happen  that  a  sub-contractor,  nameless  still, 
had  suddenly  run  up  buildings  on  behalf  of  a  contractor  who, 
of  course,  was  not  employed  by  George  (verdi)  Green,  but 
was  employed  by  a  contractor  who  worked  on  his  wife's  land. 
Singular  and  strange  is  the  association  between  the  faithful 
board  of  guardians,  the  brother-in-law  guardian,  contractor, 
sub-contractor,  the  wife,  and  at  the  end,  most  innocent, 
George  (pseudo-verdant)  Green. 

The  article  was  clear  enough,  though  wrong  in  de- 
tails. George  Green  owned  the  land  in  his  wife's  name, 
and  as  it  was  wanted  by  the  hoard  had  caused  jerry- 
buildings  to  be  run  up  by  a  sub-contractor  so  as  to  sweat 
an  increased  price  out  of  a  gullible  Board  of  Guardians 
with  the  help  of  his  brother-in-law.  A  few  days  later 
Huncote,  out  of  whose  way  the  builder  seemed  to  have 
kept,  spoke  to  a  few  members  of  the  Committee.  The 
results  were  disappointing. 


ANDROMEDA  125 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Platt,  "  it's  all  very  well, 
but  you  can't  prevent  Mrs.  Green  from  owning  land  and 
from  having  buildings  run  up." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  rot,"  said  Huncote  rudely ;  "  you 
know  quite  well  it's  Green's  land." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Platt,  "  and  no 
more  does  anybody."  He  grew  fatherly :  "  Take  my 
word  for  it  and  let  these  things  alone,  my  dear  fellow; 
they  only  make  unpleasantness." 

It  passed  through  Huncote's  mind  that  George  Green 
was  a  prominent  member  of  Platt's  election  committee ; 
that  rumour  called  Green  a  relentless  enemy  of  Lady 
Govan  ever  since  she  had  refused  him  the  contract  for 
building  the  Education  League  branch  at  Hertford. 
Platt  was  no  good,  a  mere  vote-monger.  He  tried  Miss 
Miskin  but  found  her  quite  indifferent,  as  was  also  Mrs. 
Ramsey.  He  caught  them  both  together  at  the  girls' 
sewing-class.  "  I  don't  see  what  the  trouble  is  about," 
said  Miss  Miskin,  fixing  him  with  her  reptile  eye,  "  I've 
got  some  land  of  my  own." 

"  I  can't  be  bothered  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Eamsey. 
"  I've  got  too  much  to  look  after."  She  flung  a  circular 
look  at  the  sewing-class  which  at  that  moment  was  re- 
spectfully folding  up  its  work  and  casting  from  under 
its  youthful  brows  shy  glances  at  Huncote.  "  Any- 
how, Mr.  Huncote,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  very  much  care 
for  men  to  come  into  the  class."  Huncote  flushed  as  if 
indeed  he  were  the  white  slaver  Mrs.  Eamsey  evidently 
saw  in  him. 

It  was  no  good;  they  did  not  care.  Even  George 
Green  did  not  care.  He  did  not  speak  of  the  scandal 
much ;  indeed  only  once  was  he  direct  and  then  he  said : 

"  Tell  yer  wot,  Mr.  'Uncote,  it  don't  'urt  me.  Fact 
is,  it's  a  bit  of  an  ad.  for  the  firm.  Only  wants  a  bit  o' 
moral  courage,  that's  all  it  wants." 

Huncote  could  have  laughed,  but  he  was  sickened. 
Listlessly  he  went  on  with  the  work  which  had  seized 


him  and  out  of  which  it  was  so  difficult  to  get,  with 
societies  that  trained  boys  and  girls  on  leaving  school, 
with  milk  clubs  under  royal  patronage.  He  even  at- 
tended a  drawing-room  meeting  where  there  was  a  K.  C. 
and  an  ex-Lady  Mayoress,  to  discuss :  "  Where  Will 
You  Spend  Eternity  ?  "  Truly  a  burning  question. 

He  found  himself  walking  very  fast  up  Crapp's 
Lane,  not  noticing  that  day  the  barrows  where  the 
oranges  glowed  like  dead  suns.  "  I  must  go,"  he 
thought,  "  I  must  go."  He  could  not  understand  the 
quality  of  those  people,  the  limits  of  their  activities,  the 
directions  of  their  enthusiasm.  He  could  not  under- 
stand that  they  could  mean  well,  that  indeed  they 
thought  themselves  crusaders  against  drink,  immorality, 
and  ignorance,  that  they  had  come  into  power  because 
they  had  executive  energy,  while  finer  folk  had  only 
ideals  and  uncertain  impulses,  that  Platt  thought  not 
only  to  satisfy  himself  but  also  to  benefit  the  world  by 
becoming  Platt,  M.  P.  At  the  end  of  Crapp's  Lane  he 
met  Ford,  exchanging  with  a  coster  genial  blasphemy 
and  religious  enlightenment. 

"  You  look  pretty  groggy,"  said  Ford. 

Huncote  could  not  keep  down  his  misery ;  he  told  him 
everything,  not  very  clearly.  But  the  Fighting  Parson 
understood.  "  Oh,  I  know,"  he  said,  "  I  know  all 
that.  One  gets  sick,  one  thinks  it's  no  good  and  then  — 
well,  you  have  a  pipe  and  an  imperial  pint,  and  go  to  a 
music  hall,  and  you  begin  to  see  there's  something  in 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  after  all." 

Huncote  looked  enviously  at  the  big,  blue-eyed  par- 
son, so  like  a  large  boy.  Happy  Ford,  for  whom  in  any 
public  house  flowed  the  fountain  hippocrene.  But 
Fighting  Bill,  unconscious  of  being  analysed,  was  seri- 
ous. 

"  Don't  go,"  he  said,  "  don't  make  Luther's  mistake. 
He  shouldn't  have  turned  down  the  Church  of  Kome 
like  that,  he  should  have  stuck  it  out  and  done  his  best 


ANDROMEDA  127 

to  introduce  the  latest  improvements.  You've  got  your 
devil,  and  it's  no  good  asking  the  Almighty  to  cast  him 
out ;  he  didn't  give  him  to  you  meaning  to  cast  him  out, 
he  gave  you  your  devil  to  be  a  trial  to  you,  and  for  you 
to  lay  into  him."  The  Fighting  Parson  dealt  at  the  air 
a  blow  that  would  have  pulverised  any  materialised 
demon.  "  See  what  I  mean  ?  Don't  throw  it  over, 
stick  to  your  Settlement  and  save  its  soul." 


II 

"  And  didn't  that  do  you  any  good  ?  "  asked  Theresa. 

He  shook  his  head.  For  a  moment  he  looked  at  the 
tall  girl  who  leant  negligently  against  the  wall,  one  arm 
akimbo,  and  thought  that,  so  slim  and  so  pale  in  her 
green  Liberty  gown,  she  was  like  a  convolvulus.  But 
he  was  too  preoccupied  with  his  own  mind  to  think 
long  of  her  just  then. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  it's  no  good  to  me.  Ford's  devil's 
medieval,  he  has  horns  and  a  cynical  face  like  a  Drury 
Lane  ambassador.  One  can't  believe  in  the  devil  when 
one  doesn't  believe  in  God,  and,  if  it  comes  to  that,  I'm 
not  sure  I'm  so  keen  on  casting  out  the  Son  of  the 
Morning.  They  called  him  Pan  once  upon  a  time." 

Theresa  opened  her  mouth  to  say :  "  And  what  do 
you  know  about  Pan  ?  "  but,  thinking  it  too  personal, 
she  said :  "  So  you  must  draw  your  hope  from 
ethics  ? " 

Huncote  nodded.  "  Yes,  that's  about  it,  and  it 
rather  looks  as  if  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau  and  the  school 
regulations  of  the  borough  council  were  rather  dry 
oranges."  His  ironic  smile  suddenly  gave  place  to  an 
air  of  misery.  "  It's  no  good,"  he  said  suddenly. 
"  No  good,  Miss  Underwood,  really ;  we're  not  doing 
anything ;  I  must  give  it  up.  I  don't  know  what  I  can 
do  instead." 


128     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Theresa's  face  grew  serious.  She  suddenly  forgot 
that  she  was  twenty-six  and  very,  very  old  by  the  side 
of  this  enthusiastic  boy.  She  put  out  a  hand  he  did  not 
see,  then  quickly  drew  it  back,  glad  that  he  had  not  seen 
it  and  yet,  not  knowing  why,  sorry  he  had  not.  "  Don't 
say  that,"  she  murmured,  "  can't  you  understand  that 
if  people  like  you  go  out  of  these  movements  you  leave 
them  in  the  hands  of  the  people  you  detest  ?  That 
makes  things  worse,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  And  what  if  they  do  get  worse  ? "  cried  the  young 
man.  "  What  if  the  Settlement  and  its  charges  do  go 
to  Ford's  mediaeval  hell?  What  will  it  matter  to 
Sirius  ? "  He  gave  a  sharp  laugh.  "  Can't  you  see 
yourself  what  rubbish  all  this  is,  what  I'm  doing  and 
what  you're  doing,  what  we're  all  doing,  like  water- 
spiders  rushing  about  on  a  brook.  Here  we  are,  trying 
to  teach  women  to  look  after  their  children  in  the  inter- 
vals of  charring,  and  how  to  feed  their  babies  while 
they're  doing  a  legal  nine-hours'  day  in  a  factory. 
We're  trying  to  make  the  men  sober  by  letting  them 
live  with  three  children  in  one  room  and  no  place  to  go 
but  the  pub.  And  when  we  get  them  sober  we  give 
them  Euskin.  Euskin !  "  he  repeated  savagely.  "  To 
people  who  can't  read  a  full  column  in  a  paper  because 
it's  too  long, —  because  the  papers  have  fed  them  with 
paragraphs,  given  them  the  habit  of  mental  nips! 
Mental  nips  on  an  empty  stomach !  No  wonder  society 
is  sick.  And  it's  not  only  that.  Look  at  the  children 
the  council's  feeding;  why,  we  haven't  the  decency  to 
stand  them  the  breakfast  unless  they  stand  the  educa- 
tion ;  you  mustn't  pauperise  their  parents.  It  wouldn't 
do  to  leave  twopence  in  the  working  man's  pocket,  would 
it?" 

"  Aren't  you  exaggerating  ?  "  asked  Theresa.  "  And 
haven't  you  got  it  a  little  wrong  ?  "  She  was  pitying, 
moved  by  his  anger.  "  Isn't  it  better  that  they 
shouldn't  have  that  twopence  than  go  and  get  drunk  at 


ANDROMEDA  129 

the  pub  and,"  amusement  crept  into  her  voice,  "  become 
unfit  for  Euskin  ?  " 

But  Huncote  was  not  to  be  turned.  "  It's  absurd," 
he  cried,  "  it's  all  absurd.  It's  not  much  we  do  for 
children,  but  what  we  do  we  stop  at  fourteen.  Then  we 
let  the  girls  be  slaveys  in  lodging  houses  and  the  boys 
be  trained  in  the  intricate  art  of  carrying  parcels.  Of 
course  it  doesn't  work ;  then  we  rescue  them.  We  send 
the  boys  to  the  colonies,  who  of  course  don't  thank  us, 
just  to  get  rid  of  them,  to  hide  it  all  up  nicely.  And 
the  fallen  girls,  it's  not  many  of  those  we  get  hold  of 
with  our  temptations,  the  washtub  and  floor-scrubbing, 
hiding  it  again.  Society  is  like  a  dirty  armchair  with 
a  loose  cover:  we  keep  the  chair  dirty  for  ever  and 
wash  that  loose  cover  so  that  all  may  look  respectable 
and  nice.  We  tell  the  people  to  have  lots  of  children 
for  the  Empire's  sake  and  then  relieve  the  pressure  by 
encouraging  infantile  mortality." 

"  Surely  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  do  encourage  infantile  mortality,  with 
our  low  wages  and  our  overcrowding  and  our  labour  for 
mothers.  But  we're  not  going  to  talk  about  that,  we're 
going  to  talk  about  providing  work.  Work!  There's 
nothing  but  work  in  the  world ;  it's  less  work  we  want, 
not  more ;  we  want  time  to  think.  And  then  you  come 
and  talk  to  me  of  ennobling  the  people  and  raising 
their  ideals  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  the  sort  of  thing 
I  talk  of,  that  all  our  class  talks  of  with  its  long  gab- 
bling tongue  in  its  cheek.  Yes,  we  give  them  lectures 
on  George  Borrow,  and  pictures.  Pictures!  Look  at 
this !  "  He  took  up  from  the  office  table  a  little  list  and 
read  it.  "  Here's  the  list  from  the  picture  dealer : 

LADY  OF  SHALOTT  5  doz. 

BEATA  BEATRIX    Va  doz. 

Beatitude  is  no  catch  in  St.  Panwich,  you  see. 

RETURN  OF  PERSEPHONE 7  doz. 


130     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

I  tell  you  it's  stifling.  Pictures,  lectures,  gymnastics, 
music  .  .  ." 

Theresa  came  a  little  nearer,  laid  upon  the  desk  very 
long,  rather  thin  hands,  and  bent  towards  him  without 
any  amusement  in  her  soft  eyes.  "  They  wouldn't  be 
any  better,  would  they,  without  those  things?  Aren't 
we  bringing  into  their  lives  just  that  something  which 
will  make  them  aware  that  those  lives  can  become  finer  ? 
Aren't  we  showing  them  what  we  might  get  to  ?  Giv- 
ing them  a  taste  for  it  so  that  they  may  be  fit  when  they 
get  it?  It's  many  miles  to  Babylon,  but  you  can  get 
there,  you  know." 

Huncote  shook  his  head  so  miserably  that  for  a  mo- 
ment Theresa  felt  like  an  old  woman  watching  a  little 
fevered  child  that  tosses  all  night  in  stinging  blankets; 
she  felt  helpless. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  those  aren't  the  things.  It's  too 
early  for  art.  It's  wages  now,  food,  privacy,  soap, 
security;  that's  what  they  want.  Leisure  especially, 
more  leisure." 

"  Give  the  people  a  vision,"  Theresa  murmured. 

As  if  to  himself,  Huncote  said :  "  Yes,  a  vision  of 
bread  and  butter." 


Ill 

As  dead  love  leaves  behind  it  a  memory  sometimes 
strong  enough  to  link  those  who  love  no  more,  so  does 
enthusiasm,  burnt  out,  still  yield  some  warmth.  In 
heavy  disgust  Huncote  set  out  for  the  May  excursion  of 
the  rambling  club.  This  was  the  particular  care  of  a 
chubby  secretary,  who  was  a  Radical,  believed  in  Sick- 
ens, in  Chesterton,  and  read  Jefferies  in  the  under- 
ground. Its  mixed  membership  had  geological  and 
botanical  aspirations.  But  it  also  contained  many 
members  who  merely  wanted  something  agreeable  to  do 
on  Saturday  afternoons.  Heavily  then,  as  if  perform- 


ANDROMEDA  131 

ing  a  task,  Huncote  joined  the  noisy  party  at  Maryle- 
bone.  There  were  various  spinsters  who  in  another 
walk  of  life  would  have  been  Miss  Miskins ;  there  were 
a  few  elderly  clerks,  rather  gallant,  who  practised  the 
mazurka  in  their  bedrooms.  Some  of  these  had  note- 
books, and  there  was  a  five-shilling  kodak  in  the  party. 
A  curate  had  got  in,  nobody  quite  knew  how  or  to 
whom  he  belonged.  Huncote  grew  aware  of  him  as  an 
anxious  figure  on  the  platform  just  before  the  train 
started,  a  mass  of  distressed  urgencies  who  went  about 
asking  for  his  cousin  and  finally  climbed  into  a  smoker 
and  tried  to  get  out  when  it  was  too  late. 

Huncote  had  travelled  rather  miserably  with  Chur- 
ton,  the  chubby  secretary,  and  seven  members  who 
tried  to  be  cheerful  though  in  the  presence  of  the  great. 
But  little  by  little,  as  London  passed  away  into  villa- 
land  where  in  fluffy  meadows  stood  red  and  white 
houses,  dotted  about  like  toys,  and  then  very  quickly 
into  the  soft,  rolling  plain  of  Buckinghamshire,  a  weight 
fell  from  his  shoulders.  The  sun,  which  in  London 
had  been  fair,  was  here  a  conqueror.  He  felt  a  new 
elation  as  he  stepped  out  with  his  party  along  the  road 
which  rises  swift  from  the  railway  to  disappear  into  the 
mystery  of  hanging  blue  sky  and  bending  bough.  Al- 
ready the  party  was  breaking  up.  The  spinsters,  at 
least  those  who  were  not  partnered  by  contemporary 
gallants,  formed  little  groups  for  quick,  excited  talk. 
The  sweethearts  too  were  finding  isolation,  while  the 
youngest  girls,  recruited  from  the  teashop  or  the  pickle 
factory,  were  already  growing  rowdy  with  the  van  boys 
and  the  more  experienced  ones  who  sold  the  Star  and 
the  Evening  News.  Indeed,  as  they  entered  Chalfont 
St.  Giles,  the  younger  botanists  were  getting  out  of 
hand.  It  amused  Huncote,  but  then  anything  would 
have  amused  him  just  then,  when  again  he  felt  free, 
just  because  the  sun  shone  and  he  was  as  a  dog  blinking 
in  it.  The  party  collected  at  Milton's  Cottage  which 


132    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

they  stormed  in  defiance  of  its  custodian,  and  here  the 
curate  took  the  opportunity  to  ask  Huncote  what  had 
become  of  his  cousin,  Miss  Brandon.  The  secretary 
was  found;  no  Miss  Brandon  was  known.  The  curate 
remained  obstinate. 

"  She  said  I  was  to  meet  her  on  the  platform,"  he 
repeated  endlessly.  He  looked  distressfully  at  the  of- 
ficials ;  he  was  the  sort  of  curate  of  whom  Fighting  Bill 
did  not  approve;  he  looked  as  if  he  had  been  dry- 
cleaned.  The  secretary's  intelligence  was  stirred;  he 
made  swift  enquiries. 

"  But,"  cried  the  curate,  "  you're  the  Society  for  the 
Revival  of  Mysticism,  aren't  you  ?  " 

He  was  undeceived.  Much  later  only  was  it  dis- 
covered that  he  had  come  to  the  wrong  platform  and 
been  unjustly  recruited.  All  that  afternoon  he  re- 
mained with  the  party,  reproachfully  conversing,  like 
a  remorseful  shadow. 

Until  then  it  had  been  an  ordinary  ramble.  Hun- 
cote  had  at  last  shaken  off  his  weariness,  his  feeling  that 
it  would  be  impossible  to  get  the  right  people  to  do 
what  was  wanted.  He  had  talked  to  a  few  members  he 
did  not  know;  he  had  nodded  to  Miss  Groby  who,  he 
thought,  looked  dreadful  that  day  in  a  long  green  coat, 
a  large  hat  swarming  with  congregated  roses  above 
equally  swarming  black  curls.  And  as  they  climbed 
over  the  stiles  with  many  shy  squealings  and  gallant 
guffaws,  he  had  had  quite  a  long  conversation  with 
Hilda  who  remembered  her  dance  partner  better  than 
he  did  her.  They  had  gone  side  by  side  through  the 
fields  while  Hilda  told  him  a  long,  long  story  about  a 
girl  who  had  borrowed  her  best  hat. 

"  You  see  what  I  mean,  it  wasn't  that  she  borrowed 
my  hat  that  mattered,  it  was  what  she  said." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  asked  Huncote,  rather  distrait. 

"But  I've  just  been  tellin'  you,"  said  Hilda,  ag- 
grieved. 


ANDROMEDA  133 

"  It's  so  complicated/'  said  Huncote. 

"  Don't  see  it  is,"  said  Hilda  tartly.  "  That  Milly, 
don't  you  understand  I  lent  her  the  hat  to  go  and  see 
her  people  at  Chigwell,  and  her  sister  says  to  her, 
'  That's  a  dandy  hat  you've  got,  Milly,'  and  Milly  says, 
t  Yes,  it  ain't  bad,  I  got  it  for  one-and-eleven.'  She'd 
got  a  nerve !  seeing  I  paid  eight-and-six,  saved  it  up  too 
at  threepence  a  week." 

"  I  don't  see  how  .  .  ."  murmured  Huncote. 

Hilda  was  by  now  shrilly  exasperated,  especially  as 
she  had  slipped  on  a  furrow  and  hurt  her  ankle. 

"  No,  of  course,  a  man  wouldn't."  She  was  for  a  mo- 
ment forgetting  the  stupendous  difference  in  their  rank. 
"  Only  Milly's  sister,  she  meets  me  out  with  a  gentle- 
man friend  the  other  day  and  she  says :  (  Hallo,  you've 
borrowed  Milly's  hat ! '  *  No,  I  haven't/  I  says.  She 
says,  '  Yes,  you  have,'  she  says.  t  No/  I  says,  l  she  bor- 
rowed it  from  me.'  l  Ah/  she  says,  '  now  I  see,  that's 
the  one  that  corst  one-and-eleven,  ain't  it?  Looks  it 
too,  don't  it  ? '  And  would  you  believe  it,  my  gentle- 
man friend  began  to  laugh,  like  you,"  she  added  sav- 
agely, for  Huncote  too  laughed.  At  last  it  dawned 
upon  him  what  a  girl  might  feel  when  an  eight-and- 
sixpenny  hat  was  publicly  advertised  as  worth  one-and- 
eleven. 

It  was  some  time  before  they  caught  up  the  rest  of 
the  party ;  still  Hilda  went  on  raging  about  the  price  of 
hats,  and  a  pale  blue  mist,  like  the  heart  of  a  shell,  set- 
tled unseen  of  her  upon  the  shadowy  crests  of  the  rising 
meadows. 

In  the  wood  where  for  a  moment  the  party  had  col- 
lected to  decide  upon  a  direction,  the  scattering  began 
again.  They  were  to  circle  the  wood  and  then  go  cross- 
ways,  so  as  to  be  back  at  Chalfont  St.  Giles  where  a 
great  tea  would  at  five  o'clock  be  spread  at  the  "  Pheas- 
ant." At  first  Huncote  was  associated  with  two  young 
men.  All  three  cut  switches  from  an  elder  tree  and 


134     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

went  talking  of  bicycles  while  the  third  young  man 
whistled :  "  Sail  Away."  It  was  mysterious  in  the 
wood,  still  alight  with  young  spring  leaf  and  speared 
everywhere  with  thin  golden  shafts  of  sunlight. 
Couples  could  be  glimpsed  through  the  trees;  now  and 
then  Huncote  through  frail  bushes  saw  the  white  dress 
of  a  girl.  She  passed  swift  as  a  nymph  in  an  ausonian 
glade.  Then  suddenly  they  came  upon  three  girls,  two 
of  them  known  to  Huncote  only  by  sight,  and  Miss 
Groby,  with  whom  he  exchanged  a  shy  smile.  It  all 
seemed  very  easy;  without  intention  Huncote  found 
that  one  of  the  young  men  had  gone  ahead  with  one  of 
the  girls,  presumably  to  talk  of  bicycles.  Some  way 
behind  him  he  heard  upon  the  crackling  wood  of  the 
past  autumn  the  footsteps  of  the  other  couple,  and  he 
was  alone  with  Miss  Groby,  strangely  enough  worrying 
but  little  as  to  what  he  should  say.  It  was  she  spoke 
first: 

"  It's  nice  here,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Huncote.  He  took  off  his  hat 
and  fanned  himself  with  it.  He  looked  at  her.  Yes, 
she  was  pretty,  he  thought,  with  that  look  in  her  eyes, 
half-thoughtful,  half-humble,  and  that  mouth  so  red, 
turned  back  upon  the  pale  honey  of  her  skin.  "  Why 
don't  you  take  off  your  gloves  ?  "  he  asked.  Miss  Groby 
blushed.  Something  personal  had  arisen  between  them. 
She  stopped.  She  fidgeted  a  little.  "  Go  on,"  said 
Huncote,  "  take  them  off;  one  doesn't  wear  gloves  in  the 
country." 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  distrustfully,  as  if  she  felt 
reproved,  and  very  slowly  began  to  pull  off  her  gloves. 
He  smiled  at  her,  so  ignorant  and  callous,  not  under- 
standing that  she  did  not  want. a  man  of  his  class  to  see 
the  hands  of  hers. 

As  they  stood,  she  so  slowly  pulling  off  her  gloves, 
the  other  couple  passed  thenu  The  girl  was  making  a 
daisy  chain  and  as  she  went  threw  them  .an  accomplice 


ANDROMEDA  135 

glance.  Her  young  man  peeled  his  stick,  softly 
whistling  another  tune. 

At  last  Miss  Groby's  gloves  were  off,  and  because  it 
had  been  so  complex  Huncote  looked  at  her  hands. 
They  were  not  ugly ;  they  were  muscular  and  somewhat 
thickened,  particularly  at  the  joints  and  the  finger  tips. 
And  they  showed  coquetry,  for  Miss  Groby  ought  to 
have  taken  six-and-three-quarter  gloves,  while  the  marks 
round  her  wrists  and  on  the  back  of  the  hands  showed 
that  she  had  forced  them  into  six-and-a-half.  They 
were  broad  hands,  tending  to  taper;  the  finger  nails, 
very  neglected,  were  of  filbert  shape.  Huncote  looked 
at  them  because  the  little  dispute  had  awakened  him  to 
their  existence ;  he  liked  the  pallor  of  the  wrist  and  the 
strong  over-lay  of  red  and  brown  on  the  hands.  Miss 
Groby  laughed;  she  was  self-conscious,  and  that  made 
her  silent.  So  it  was  Huncote  who  spoke  first,  rathe* 
patronising. 

"  D'you  often  come  on  these  expeditions  ?  " 

"  I  came  last  year,"  said  Miss  Groby,  "  that  was  my 
first  year.  You  see,  mother  didn't  like  me  running 
about  the  country;  she  said  I  was  too  young,  I  was 
only  eighteen  then." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Huncote,  who  felt  absurdly  fatherly 
as  she  was  so  young  and  he  felt  so  old.  "  Of  course,  if 
your  mother  ..." 

"Mother  knows  best,"  said  Miss  Groby  quickly,  as 
if  afraid  Huncote  was  going  to  criticise  her.  "  Mother 
always  says,  l  Life's  a  funny  thing,  and  you  never 
know  what'll  happen  next.'  That's  true,  don't  you 
think?" 

The  man  agreed.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it's  true,  even  if 
it's  not  very  epigrammatic." 

Miss  Groby  looked  at  him  with  large  admiring  eyes. 
She  thought  him  splendid,  so  tall  and  long-limbed  and 
aristocratic  with  that  high  wide  forehead,  and  the 
swept-back  fair  hair.  But  an  obscure  ragging  instinct, 


half -youthful,  half -cockney,  made  her  say :  "  Good 
word,  epidramatic !  " 

Suddenly  they  both  laughed.  As  if  laughter,,  like  a 
magic  carpet,  had  snatched  them  up,  they  were  in  an- 
other world,  the  Palace  of  Ease.  She  had  made  a  fool 
of  him,  so  they  could  be  children  together.  She  prat- 
tled on  still  about  her  mother,  for  the  subject  seemed 
to  fire  her,  about  her  mother  of  whom  a  picture  slowly 
grew  up,  always  working,  it  seemed,  and  always  think- 
ing of  the  children's  boots  and  father's  dinner,  or  tuck- 
ing one  up  in  bed  when  one  was  little.  Miss  Groby 
grew  quite  sentimental  as  Mrs.  Groby  developed  into 
the  angel  of  memory,  unfailingly  laying  on  the  first 
Sunday  of  every  July  some  flowers  upon  the  grave  of 
Uncle  Tom.  Huncote  thought  it  rather  wonderful ;  he 
had  still  to  learn  what  the  mother  means  among  the 
poor,  where  the  father  is  so  often  drunk  and  always 
odorous,  heavy,  threatening;  he  thought  Mrs.  Groby 
was  just  Mrs.  Groby,  instead  of  understanding  that  she 
represented  all  the  mothers  of  all  the  young  girls  such 
as  the  one  to  whom  he  spoke. 

He  asked  questions. 

"  What  do  I  do  ?  Oh,  all  sorts  of  things.  Mother 
takes  in  washing,  you  know;  fine  washing,  of  course," 
she  added  with  a  touch  of  pride,  "  all  done  by  hand ;  so 
I  help  her  with  the  laces,  and  the  —  the  — "  She  grew 
shy.  "  Well,  anyhow,  I've  plenty  to  do.  And  of 
course  I've  to  help  mother  a  bit  with  Muriel  and  Perce, 
that's  my  brother  and  sister,  you  know,"  she  prattled 
on.  She  had  little  to  say  of  Muriel,  who  would  soon 
leave  school,  but  Perce  was  evoked  as  a  boy  already 
agreeably  rakish.  "  He's  a  corf  drop,"  said  Miss 
Groby. 

They  went  on  slowly  through  the  wood  and,  little  by 
little,  Huncote  was  led  into  the  Grobys'  home.  He 
heard  of  the  father,  a  stonemason,  and  heard  little  more 
save  that  he  was  big  and  had  a  red  face ;  and  Perce  came 


ANDROMEDA  137 

up  more  clearly  as  the  rake  when  he  found  out  that 
Perce  recently  had  a  bad  night  at  shove  halfpenny, 
while  Muriel,  it  seemed,  was  quite  the  lady.  He  had  a 
vision  of  the  small  home,  three  rooms,  in  Paradise  Row, 
of  very  early  morning  and  the  father  leaving  in  the 
greyness,  of  the  children  fed  and  hurried  to  school. 
He  imagined  Mrs.  Grohy  upon  her  knees,  swishing  the 
floor  with  a  wet  rag  in  hands  which,  he  was  sure,  were 
large  and  red  and  kindly.  He  imagined  Miss  Groby 
too,  washing  the  fine  laces,  and  then,  more  dimly,  her 
pleasures.  He  questioned  her;  she  answered  him 
easily  enough.  There  could  be  no  shyness  here  as  they 
slowly  walked  around  the  wood,  keeping  strictly  to  the 
little  path  of  beaten  earth  by  the  side  of  which  grew 
many  cuckoo  flowers  and,  here  and  there,  in  aloofness,  a 
few  bluebells.  The  day  was  warm,  with  some  fresh- 
ness ;  a  cool  wind,  like  the  breath  of  a  rejuvenated  earth, 
played  softly  on  their  faces.  The  girl  by  his  side,  who 
talked  so  freely  to  him  of  her  concerns,  did  not  jar  upon 
him,  for  she  was  not  pretending,  not  trying.  She  was 
telling  him  the  plot  of  a  cinema  play  to  which  she 
had  been  with  "  a  gentleman  friend."  Curiously  he 
thought  of  Bert. 

"  Oh,  him  ? "  she  said,  and  suddenly  grew  shy. 
"  Mr.  Caldwell,  that  is ;  you  know,  he  was  at  the  dance." 

"  Yes,"  said  Huncote.  He  remembered  the  fierce 
young  socialist  and  instinctively  knew  that  between  him 
and  the  girl  there  was  a  link.  He  had  to  ascertain. 
"  You're  going  to  marry  him,  aren't  you  ? "  Miss 
Groby's  face  passed  from  pale  olive  to  a  crimson  dusk. 
Huncote  knew  he  had  been  clumsy,  so  he  said :  "  Sorry, 
I  oughtn't  to  have  asked." 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  Miss  Groby,  rather 
stately,  "  but  we're  not  thinking  of  that,  Bert  and  me. 
I've  known  him  such  a  long  time;  we're  such  old 
friends,  you  see." 

Huncote  understood;  he  had  lived  long  enough  in 


138     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

St.  Panwich  to  have  heard  of  these  confused  relation- 
ships. It  did  not  concern  him,  but  it  stayed  in  his 
mind  as  typical.  He  forgot  Miss  Groby;  he  saw  only 
the  people,  the  people  who  seemed  to  be  always  working 
except  when  they  made  merry;  the  people  were  like 
youth,  crude  perhaps,  coarse  very  often,  sometimes  self- 
ish because  they  were  so  young,  because  man  unspoiled 
by  civilisation  has  no  ethical  ideas.  He  thought: 
"  No,  no  complications,  no  ideas  about  religion,  just 
acceptance;  no  ideas  about  art  and  politics,  no  damned 
ideas  of  any  kind.  Yet  we  must  give  them  ideas,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Miss  Groby  walked  by  his  side,  silent  now.  She  had 
picked  some  bluebells  and  was  trying  to  bind  them 
together  with  a  stalk  of  grass.  She  seemed  so  childish, 
like  her  own  people.  Huncote  flung  her  a  sidelong 
glance :  "  Yes,  a  child  with  no  ideas,  no  theories,  no 
complications.  Ideals?  Perhaps.  Or  must  not  we, 
whom  fortune  has  favoured,  give  them  ideals  ?  "  But 
suddenly  he  felt  ashamed.  "  Who  was  it  who  should 
give  them  ideals  ?  The  Platts  and  the  Miss  Miskins  of 
this  world  ?  Or  even  he  ?  "  He  was  pharisee  enough 
to  think  "  even  "  such  as  he,  a  man  of  blind  rebellions 
and  feeble  habits.  He  spoke  aloud :  "  Oh,  rot !  It's 
not  ideals  we're  giving  them,  it's  conventions.  They've 
got  conventions  of  their  own,  and  all  we're  doing  is  to 
give  them  the  conventions  of  another  class !  " 

"  Beg  pardon  ?  "  said  Miss  Groby. 

He  stared,  suddenly  aware  of  her.  "  Oh,"  he  said, 
"  I  was  only  talking  to  myself ;  excuse  me." 

Miss  Groby  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  whether 
he  was  often  taken  that  way  but,  as  if  something  of  his 
emotion  had  passed  into  her,  she  remained  silent. 
Swiftly,  as  the  plant  rises  from  the  little  seed  in  the 
fakir's  pot,  a  bond  more  human,  less  intellectual  formed 
between  them,  because  he  had  thought  of  her  as  capable 
of  an  ideal,  because  she  had  caught  him  in  a  queer  per- 


ANDROMEDA  139 

sonal  habit.  Without  purpose  they  stopped.  They 
were  not  self-conscious  now,  though  they  did  not  under- 
stand each  other  at  all,  but  they  were  willing  to  do 
without  understanding. 

The  sun  was  lower  then,  and  they  stood  in  a  clearing 
in  the  thin  wood,  at  the  edge  of  a  deep  dell  thickly 
grown  with  ivy  and  brambles,  all  edged  with  the  decay- 
ing trunks  of  big  trees.  It  was  a  fantastic  place  this, 
the  heavy  moist  hollow,  and  all  round  it,  like  guards, 
the  decapitated  trunks  of  trees  that  were  dark  and 
sturdy  like  stunted  giants.  The  light  fell  aslant 
through  the  leaves,  making  upon  their  cheeks  patterns 
like  the  points  of  spears.  And  where  the  sun  touched 
the  girl's  cheek  it  was  rich  and  golden  as  a  pomegranate. 
She  looked  at  him  silent  and  disturbed,  and  he  saw  no 
more  the  ugly  green  cloth  coat,  the  dreadful  slum  Sun- 
day hat  with  the  many  pink  roses.  Standing  like  this, 
her  strong  hands  clasped  together,  looking  up  beyond 
him  to  the  sky  that  was  pale  as  running  water,  she 
seemed  wondering  and  forlorn.  But  standing  before 
her,  looking  at  her  so  much  more  intently  than  she 
looked  at  the  sky,  he  seemed  to  see  her  for  the  first  time, 
with  her  broad  shoulders  and  her  slender  hips,  to  see 
her  shape  that  was  as  a  young  athlete's,  the  long  arms 
that  relieved  her  breadth,  the  darkness  and  the  dusky 
intimacy  of  her.  She  stood  undisturbed  as,  feature  by 
feature,  he  began  to  know  her,  the  heavy  black  hair  with 
brown  shadows  in  its  waves,  the  high  trustful  eyebrows 
over  the  languid  darkness  of  the  brown  eyes.  Her  nose 
was  straight,  small  with  sensitive  if  not  very  well- 
moulded  nostrils.  But  then  he  looked  at  the  mouth 
over  the  little  pointed  chin  that  broadened  suddenly  to 
right  and  left, —  the  mouth  full  of  curves,  with  parted, 
upturned  lips  and  an  air  of  appeal.  She  was  appeal- 
ing to  him  now  as  her  class  had  once  done,  for  an  en- 
lightening, a  rescue  which  perhaps  he  might  achieve. 
The  misunderstanding  had  gone,  for  as  they  stood  so  in 


140     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

the  light  which  every  moment  grew  deeper  in  colour, 
they  were  conscious  less  of  each  other  than  of  the  atmos- 
phere they  made.  He  was  Perseus,  and  she  the  weep- 
ing Andromeda. 

Quite  suddenly  the  tension  was  relieved.  Miss 
Groby  seemed  to  listen.  Until  then  they  had  heard 
other  voices  in  the  wood.  Now  there  were  none.  She 
grew  self-conscious  and,  because  self-conscious,  afraid. 

"  We'd  better  be  getting  on,"  she  said. 

Huncote  too  awoke.  "  Yes,  I  s'pose  we  ought ;  we'd 
better  go  back,  but  don't  let's  go  back  the  same  way; 
let's  cut  across  to  the  right  and  then  beat  back." 

"  I  don't  mind,"  said  Miss  Groby,  as  if  willing  to  be 
commanded. 

They  turned  into  the  wood  that  was  a  little  thicker 
beyond  the  sleepy  hollow,  under  oaks  which  had  been 
spared.  They  were  natural  and  young  again,  and  they 
laughed  when  Huncote  raised  sweeping  branches  so  that 
she  might  pass  and  sheltered  her  with  his  body  from  a 
bush  of  blackthorn.  They  did  not  feel  it  incongruous, 
either  of  them,  that  he,  the  delicate  one,  the  gentleman, 
should  interpose  that  over-tended  body  between  the 
blackthorn  and  her  capable  sturdiness.  For  a  long  time 
they  went  like  this  until  they  turned  again  towards  the 
right  along  yet  another  path  that  seemed  to  lead  towards 
Chalfont  St.  Giles.  They  followed  it  for  a  long  time 
along  its  windings,  through  hollows  where  the  leaves  of 
the  dead  autumn  smelt  sweet  and  old.  But  Miss  Groby 
cried  out  when  suddenly  it  brought  them  back  to  the 
hollow  that  slept  deeper  as  the  coming  twilight  fell 
dim. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried,  "  why  we've  got  right  back !  " 

Indeed  they  had  come  back  to  the  place  where  for  a 
moment  weeping  Andromeda  had  stood  beseeching  in 
the  sun.  But  that  moment  did  not  recur  to  Miss  Groby. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  we'll  be  so  late.  We  must  go 
back  the  other  way.  Oh,  what  shall  we  do  ?  " 


ANDROMEDA  141 

"  It'll  be  all  right,"  said  Huncote,  "  it  can't  be  much 
more  than  half  an  hour  from  here." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  it's  more,"  said  Miss  Groby,  "  we  must 
hurry."  And  she  walked  ahead  along  the  path  very 
quickly,  Huncote  apologising  too  profusely,  for  he  was 
embarrassed.  As  they  went,  unable  to  talk  because 
Miss  Groby  was  too  preoccupied,  she  thought  revenge- 
ful thoughts.  She  knew  what  they  would  say  when 
they  got  back.  "  It  would  be  different,"  she  grumbled, 
"  if  we'd  found  the  others." 

Huncote  half  understood.  He  guessed  that  the  peo- 
ple would  say  they  had  lost  themselves  on  purpose,  but 
he  did  not  know  the  thoughts  in  Miss  Groby's  brain; 
he  did  not  realise  her  suspicion  of  him,  of  his  class,  of 
his  motives.  If  she  had  spoken  aloud  he  would  have 
heard : 

"  It's  all  very  well,  but  he's  a  swell.  Shouldn't  won- 
der if  there  isn't  a  last  train,  and  it's  all  a  put-up  job." 
All  the  ease  had  gone  and  the  passing  glory  faded. 
Here  was  no  longer  Andromeda,  shining-clad,  but  the 
puritanical,  fearful,  rigid  young  girl  of  the  superior 
slums.  Night  was  coming;  she  drew  close  about  her- 
self the  ugly  green  cloth  coat,  and  as  if  in  a  magic 
mantle  the  vision  disappeared. 

When  at  last  they  rejoined  the  party  nothing  was 
said.  He  was  conscious  of  some  sniggering  and  of 
couples  nudging  each  other,  of  Churton  with  raised  eye- 
brows. But  Huncote  was  still  so  entire  an  idealist  that 
he  did  not  understand  when  Hilda,  fatly  blowing  herself 
out  like  a  young  and  pretty  turkey  cock,  turned  away 
from  him  with  pink  chin  uplifted.  In  the  train  he  was 
at  first  aglow  with  the  memory,  while  the  others  dis- 
cussed the  success  of  the  ramble  from  the  Committee's 
point  of  view.  He  had  been  happy,  but  did  not  know 
why.  Because  he  had  been  near  earth,  he  thought;  it 
was  too  early  for  him  to  think  that  it  was  because  he  had 
been  near  the  earth  maiden.  Then  he  grew  conscious 


142     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

that  somebody  questioned  him;  it  was  the  curate.  He 
remembered. 

"  I  hope  you  managed  to  have  a  decent  afternoon 
after  all,"  he  said. 

"  Well,"  replied  the  curate  dubiously,  "  it  was  not 
quite  what  I  expected.  We  had  a  very  pleasant  tea  at 
the  '  Pheasant ',  very  pleasant  indeed,  but  I  don't  know 
what  my  cousin  will  say." 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Huncote,  "  she  belongs  to  the 
Society  for  the  Revival  of  Mysticism,  doesn't  she  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  curate,  full  of  his  sin  of  omission. 
"  I  don't  know  what  she'll  say.  You  see,  the  society's 
been  influenced  by  the  Irish  revival,  and  we  were  to  go 
to  Rickmansworth  woods  to  try  and  find  fairies." 

Half  an  hour  later,  at  Marylebone,  it  was  he  who 
stopped  the  bus  for  Miss  Groby  and  a  girl  friend.  As 
they  drove  off  his  heart  was  delighted.  Miss  Groby 
had  the  inside  corner  seat;  it  was  dark,  and  the  lamp 
just  above  her  head  brought  out  her  dusky  beauty.  As 
the  bus  moved  she  smiled,  and  he  saw  a  quality  he  had 
not  known  before  in  the  softness  of  her  sidelong  look. 


PART  THE  SECOND 

LEAVES  OF  YGGDRASIL 


To  morowe  ye  shal  on  hunting  fare, 

And  ryde,  my  doughter,  in  a  chare: 

It  shal  be  covered  with  velvet  reede, 

And  clothes  of  fyne  golde  al  about  your  hed. 

With  damske  white   and  asure  blewe, 

Wei  dyapred  with  lyllyes  newe. 

(The  Squyer  of  Low  Degre.) 


CHAPTER  THE  FIRST 

THERESA 


THE  summer  breathed  fragrant  through  the  pipes  of 
June.  The  people  that  once  had  been  grey  with  dust 
and  weariness  went  light  as  to  the  dance.  In  London 
June  had  come  without  youth,  had  come  as  June  does 
in  cities,  mature  as  a  beloved  courtesan  and  yet  beauti- 
ful. It  was  London  June  and  the  fullness  of  summer, 
the  spring  forgot;  June  riotous,  June  flower-grown, 
June  ignorant  of  meadows  flecked  with  white  and  mad- 
der daisies,  sumptuous  London  June,  fashionable  even 
in  the  slums,  opulent  June  crowned  with  crimson  pop- 
pies, June  smart  with  a  golden  carnation  in  her  but- 
tonhole or,  more  audacious,  the  vivid  velvety  quills  of 
a  dahlia.  And  the  June  people  every  year  born,  that 
every  year  die  as  again  the  fog  falls,  were  there;  the 
men  lighter  clad,  a  few  of  them  already  healthily  brown- 
ing; the  women  flushed  like  those  white  poppies  that 
blush  when  the  sun  kisses  them.  A  true  heat  already  in 
the  air  and  the  warm  scents  of  summer,  of  earth,  of 
leather,  of  man,  of  all  things  from  which  the  sun  draws 
their  essence.  From  human  creatures  it  drew  it  too, 
and  Huncote  felt  it  as  all  men.  He  was  lighter,  he  was 
gayer,  and  he  believed  in  the  things  which  at  bottom  he 
knew  were  untrue ;  so  he  was  happy.  Because  he  was 
happy  he  made  others  happy;  because  he  loved  them 
better  they  learnt  to  love  him.  They  had  begun  to 
know  him  at  last  in  St.  Panwich,  or  perhaps  it  was  the 
summer  that  served  him  as  a  naturalisation  certificate. 
St.  Panwich  seemed  to  have  decided  to  overlook  what 


146     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

it  did  not  like,  his  slight  stiffness,  his  hesitations,  and 
those  unaccountable  silences  during  which  St.  Panwich 
knew  that  Huncote  was  getting  at  it.  St.  Panwich  for- 
gave as  it  prepared  to  lumber  into  the  dance  to  the  pipes 
of  June.  One  evening  at  the  Progress  Arms,  where 
the  women  had  been  admitted  for  good  after  a  final  con- 
flict with  Miss  Miskin  and  Mrs.  Eamsey,  he  found  quite 
a  little  crowd.  He  wondered  at  it,  not  realising  that  a 
few  of  the  slightly  civilised  (that  is  to  say,  Settle- 
mented)  men  had  learnt  to  prefer  non-alcoholics  in  the 
summer.  It  was  a  curious  evening,  for  the  barmaid, 
still  respectable,  was  heard  to  remark  to  a  man  who 
leant  over  the  bar  and  whispered  to  her :  "  ISTo  fear !  " 
Huncote  was  curious  to  know  what  the  man  had  whis- 
pered; he  never  found  out.  But  still  it  remained  evi- 
dent that  a  new  wind  blew  over  the  placid  waters,  for 
in  the  winter  she  certainly  would  have  said :  "I 
wouldn't  dream  of  such  a  thing !  " 

But  still  he  was  not  after  all  to  be  gay  and  easy.  He 
was  paying  the  penalty  of  success.  The  ramble  had 
been  so  much  appreciated,  the  tea  in  the  Elizabethan 
garden  of  the  "  Pheasant "  so  satisfying,  that  Huncote 
was  acclaimed  as  the  procurator  of  popular  pleasures. 
It  had  really  been  a  triumph,  for  it  had  impressed  even 
the  accidental  curate;  a  few  days  later  he  gave  up 
fairies  and  shyly  sidled  into  the  rambling  club.  Now 
the  summer  social,  the  Great  Summer  Social,  was 
placed  upon  Huncote's  shoulders,  whether  as  the  im- 
perial purple  or  as  a  shirt  of  Nessus  he  could  not  tell. 
He  did  not  mind ;  he  liked  the  bustle  in  the  air ;  it  made 
him  collect  helpers,  and  doing  this  gave  him  his  first 
opportunity  of  seeing  Miss  Groby  again.  She  came 
one  evening,  just  for  an  hour,  to  address  envelopes  while 
Huncote  walked  about  the  room,  very  busily  doing 
nothing  and  trying  to  remember  all  the  things  he  would 
have  to  do.  She  had  changed;  Miss  Groby  was  just 
one  of  the  seven  or  eight  girls  who  came  one  evening  to 


THERESA  U7 

address  envelopes  to  the  members.  She  looked  up  at 
him,  smiled  without  self -consciousness ;  and  he  was 
awkward,  as  if  forgetting  for  a  moment  what  she  was. 
For  she  did  not  come  up  in  high  relief  in  the  exuber- 
ance of  summer  as  she  had  done  in  spring,  smiling  on 
its  way  to  the  grave.  Besides  he  was  oppressed  by  all 
sorts  of  questions,  by  motorbus  arrangements  with  a 
company  that  seemed  disinclined  to  carry  his  party,  by 
an  endless  haggle  with  the  inn  at  Colin  Deep.  On  the 
eve  of  the  social  there  was  a  mustard  and  cress  famine, 
or  his  supply  had  been  sent  to  Birmingham  by  mistake, 
or  something. 

"  Well,"  said  Theresa,  after  hearing  him  dictate  a 
febrile  telegram  about  the  mustard  and  cress,  "  tell  me 
the  worst.  Must  it  be  parsley  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  rather  miserably.  "  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  laugh  at  me,"  he  said,  "  I'm  fed  up  with  this 
thing."  He  grew  resentful.  "  You're  always  laugh- 
ing at  me." 

Theresa  looked  at  him  as  if  to  say :  "  Very  good  for 
you  too,"  but  she  felt  sorry  for  him  and  thought  he 
looked  pale,  not  strong.  Because  she  was  older  it  af- 
fected her.  "  I've  got  to  laugh  at  you,"  she  said,  at 
last.  "  One's  got  to  now  and  then  if  one  doesn't  want 
to  cry." 

"  There's  nothing  to  cry  about  in  me,"  said  Huncote. 
"  At  least  I  hope  not." 

They  laughed  together  a  little  nervously.  Then  his 
weariness  seized  him  again. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  I'm  so  tired." 

Theresa  grew  maternal. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said,  "  you've  done  enough.  I've 
been  here  all  the  afternoon,  and  I  think  you've  tele- 
phoned about  fifteen  times,  including  the  wrong  num- 
bers ;  and  every  time  I  heard  you  speak  it's  been  about 
more  chairs,  or  else  shrimps,  or  something  equally 
poetic.  You've  done,  haven't  you  ?  " 


148     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Yes,  but  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  but  you're  only  fussing  now.  You're  going 
on  and  on,  doing  little  things  over  and  over  again  and 
making  yourself  hysterical.  You're  like  the  people 
who've  been  seasick;  when  they've  been  as  sick  as  they 
ought  to  be  they  try  to  begin  it  all  over  again.  Not  a 
romantic  comparison,  is  it?  Well,  you've  been  quite 
romantic  enough  to-day  in  the  interests  of  the  people 
and  of  fuss  in  general.  What  you're  going  to  do  now 
is  to  come  out  with  me  and  have  some  air.  Walk  all 
the  way  back  to  my  flat  and  talk  about  anything  but 
shrimp-paste." 

"  All  right,"  said  Huncote,  "  and  don't  blame  me  to- 
morrow if  they  send  Carter  Paterson's  vans  instead  of 
omnibuses  with  an  ostentatious  '  Private '  marked  on 
them." 

They  walked  all  the  way  from  the  Settlement, 
through  the  little  lanes  of  Penton  Town  where  they 
were  silent  and  rather  grave.  He  disturbed  Theresa, 
this  aimless  young  man;  she  hardly  knew  what  to  say 
to  him.  So  she  stopped  in  front  of  a  barrow  and 
bought  a  pound  of  cherries. 

"  We'll  eat  them  as  we  go,"  she  said.  Huncote  took 
one  with  a  delirious  sense  of  unconventionality  and  ate 
it  in  the  street.  "  Here,"  said  Theresa,  holding  out  a 
handful  to  a  small  girl  who  was  just  very  large  black 
eyes  with  a  child  round  them.  The  child  took  the  fruit 
without  thanks.  Perhaps  she  had  never  been  given 
cherries  before  and  could  not  believe  they  were  meant 
for  her. 

"  Poor  kid !  "  said  Theresa,  as  they  walked  on,  "  she 
looked  quite  frightened." 

But  at  that  moment  they  heard  behind  them  a  cry. 
Huncote  turned  just  in  time  to  catch  a  decayed  cherry 
full  in  the  face.  "  Good  luck  to  you !  "  yelled  the  little 
girl.  "  Ain't  got  no  rice." 

They  laughed  as  they  went  on,  but  the  laughter  was 


THERESA  149 

self-conscious  and  awkward.  It  was  a  shame,  Huncote 
thought,  that  whenever  he  walked  with  a  woman  he 
should  be  intimately  associated  with  her  in  the  popular 
mind.  It  was  a  long  walk,  through  Penton  Town  and 
then  along  Marylebone  Road,  to  St.  Mary's  Mansions 
where  Miss  Underwood  lived.  Much  later  in  the  even- 
ing, Huncote  wondered  what  they  had  talked  about ;  he 
could  not  remember  very  well.  That  talk  had  a  quality 
different  from  other  conversations;  there  had  been  no 
discussion  of  social  ideas  or  even  of  artistic  ideas. 
They  had  told  each  other  a  little  about  themselves,  as  if 
they  soliloquised  rather  than  conversed.  He  learnt  that 
Theresa  lived  alone,  having  lost  her  parents;  he  gath- 
ered she  had  a  small  income.  Only  one  question  did  he 
put,  and  the  answer  he  remembered.  "  I  say,"  he 
asked,  rather  abruptly,  "  d'you  find  that  the  Settlement 
and  all  that  fills  your  life  enough  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  while;  then  she  said: 
"-Well,  you  see,  one  must  do  something.  Oh,  I  mean 
more  than  that ;  I'm  not  going  to  pretend  that  the  peo- 
ple are  nice."  She  smiled.  "  One  notices  them  in  the 
summer.  I  don't  know  that  I  think  one  can  do  so  much 
for  them  after  all,  but  I  think  one  can  do  a  lot  for  one's 
own  soul  by  loving  them." 

In  reply  he  had,  being  still  enthralled  by  his  newly 
recovered  faith  in  the  splendour  of  the  people,  been 
vaguely  enthusiastic;  but  he  did  not  like  himself.  He 
felt  materialistic  and  shrill  by  the  side  of  this  seren- 
ity. When  they  reached  St.  Mary's  Mansions  Theresa 
said: 

"  Come  in  for  a  moment,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  —  I  — "  he  hesitated. 

"  Yes,  of  course  you  must  come  up,"  she  said  decid- 
edly. "  You  look  fagged  out ;  come  up  and  have  a 
whisky  and  soda."  He  followed. 

The  flat  into  which  he  was  shown  by  an  elderly  maid 
surprised  him.  He  had  never  thought  of  the  probable 


150     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

surroundings  of  Miss  Underwood,  but  if  he  had  been 
asked  he  would  have  expected  something  more  arty, 
something  with  a  pre-Raphaelite  touch.  He  was  dis- 
appointed and  yet  not.  The  flat,  at  the  very  top  of  the 
mansions,  looked  rather  severe  but  comfortable.  In  the 
drawing-room  where  now  he  sat  were  flowered  chintzes, 
not  at  all  advanced  but  very  white  and  pink.  Upon 
the  pale  yellow  walls  were  a  few  black-and-white 
sketches,  an  oil  not  at  all  extreme.  There  were  a  few 
books  upon  the  chairs,  a  great  many  more  in  a  bookcase. 
He  read  the  titles  of  a  few  of  them  later:  Religio 
Medici,  The  Golden  Treasury,  also  a  few  novels  by 
Mrs.  Humphry  Ward.  It  was  incoherent,  careless,  or 
catholic,  he  did  not  know  which.  They  did  not  speak 
at  first  as  he  sat,  drinking  the  whisky  and  soda.  He 
did  not  want  to,  for  really  he  was  tired,  and  Theresa 
seemed  to  know  it  as  she  silently  watched  him,  fanning 
herself  with  a  copy  of  the  Studio.  She  looked  at  him 
as  if  thinking:  "  There,  my  little  boy,  now  you'll  be 
all  right."  After  a  while  she  said:  "  You're  not  in  a 
hurry,  are  you  ?  D'you  like  music  ?  " 

He  nodded.  Unasked  she  went  to  the  piano  and  soon 
there  came  from  it  clear  tunes,  skipping  tunes  that 
sounded  as  if  they  were  being  played  far  away.  In  a 
break  he  went  up  to  the  music  cabinet  and  there  he 
found  many  people  of  whom  he  had  only  heard,  Lulli, 
Eameau,  Couperin  Le  Grand.  She  played  on,  not  de- 
manding his  attention,  now  a  fugue. 

He  said :  "  I  like  that  music ;  it's  like  time,  without 
a  beginning  or  an  end." 

"  Shade  of  Bach !  "  she  mocked.  "  How  pleased  you 
must  be  if  in  this  minute,  as  Maeterlinck  thinks,  you 
live  again." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  laugh  at  me,"  he  said. 

She  was  perverse.  "  I  will  laugh  at  you,"  she  cried. 
"  Listen !  listen !  "  and  she  went  off  into  shrill  peals. 
"  There,  now  you're  offended.  Well,  you'd  better  go 


THERESA  151 

if  you're  offended.  Go  on,  make  a  noise  like  a  hoop 
and  roll  away,  as  the  Americans  say." 

Huncote  went  towards  the  door,  espousing  her  mood, 
but  before  he  reached  it,  "  Not  that  door,"  cried  Miss 
Underwood.  "  That  leads  into  an  empty  room." 

"  An  empty  room  ?  A  ghost  closet  ?  You  fire  me. 
I  won't  go  until  I've  investigated  it." 

"  Investigate,"  said  Miss  Underwood.  "  You  won't 
find  anything  except  a  trunk  or  two,  and  many  things 
which  Elizabeth  will  not  throw  away.  You  see,  this 
flat  has  five  rooms,  and  I  can't  live  in  five  rooms  be- 
cause there's  only  one  me;  so  I've  only  furnished  two 
and  let  Elizabeth  do  what  she  likes  in  the  others. 
There  are  two  rooms  quite  empty,  but  you've  no  idea 
how  nice  it  is  to  have  hardly  any  rooms  and  hardly  any 
furniture,  and  hardly  anything  except  yourself." 

Huncote  looked  thoughtful,  but  suddenly,  as  if 
she  felt  the  link  had  grown  too  personal,  she  broke 
off. 

"  You  don't  want  to  hear  about  my  household ;  let 
me  play  you  something  else." 

She  went  back  to  the  piano  and  joltily  she  played 
yet  another  of  those  tripping  little  tunes.  "  Les 
Tresorieres  Surannees,"  she  said,  as  she  played,  "  in 
other  words,  the  superannuated  treasuresses." 

He  did  not  like  her  feeble  humour;  yet  she  pleased 
him.  He  was  so  tired  of  being  serious,  and  Theresa 
made  everything  seem  passing,  artificial,  and  yet  charm- 
ing, to  make  a  world  like  a  picture  by  Watteau,  a  dance 
of  velvet  and  satins  among  shepherds  and  sheep.  As 
she  played  she  thought  of  him  and  of  herself.  She 
thought  of  the  sweetness  of  her  own  independence  and 
yet  its  emptiness.  She  thought  of  him  and  grew  rather 
superior;  she  felt  so  much  older,  a  full  three  years, 
while  he  seemed  so  enthusiastic  and  so  young.  That 
was  delightful  and  absurd.  As  she  played  she  glanced 
sideways  at  him;  she  thought  it  a  shame  that  such  a 


152     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

nice  child  should  be  worried  by  practical  things  and  its 
own  fancies. 

As  he  went  down  the  stairs  he  felt  rested,  yet  not  at 
rest.  She  was  still  playing  and  all  the  way  down  there 
accompanied  him  the  more  and  more  distant  trippings 
of  "  Les  Tresorieres  Surannees." 


II 

The  summer  social  moved  with  the  splendid  ease  of 
those  great  machines  which,  considered  while  at  rest, 
look  as  if  they  could  not  possibly  move.  To  Huncote  it 
seemed  an  immense  success,  for  he  had  expected  it  to  be 
a  failure.  At  half-past  one  on  the  third  Saturday  in 
July,  eight  motorbusses,  in  a  side  street  near  King's 
Cross,  received  the  four  hundred  roysterers.  In  defi- 
ance of  County  Council  regulations  they  stacked  them- 
selves inside  and  out,  the  elders  hustled,  not  minding 
and  wiping  their  heads  with  great  satisfaction;  the 
young  couples  seated  upon  the  floor,  crushed  up  very 
close ;  odd  gaps,  such  as  spaces  between  adult  feet,  were 
filled  in  with  children.  It  was  difficult  to  make  out 
what  was  happening,  for  at  the  entrance  to  every  bus 
the  official  in  charge  was  having  continuous  rows  with 
the  people  who  had  forgotten  the  tickets  for  which  they 
had  paid  fourpence  a  month.  Huncote  had  to  intervene 
in  one  of  the  rows  which  Platt  was  conducting,  for  the 
prospective  candidate  had  seen  to  it  that  the  outside  of 
his  bus  was  filled  with  men  and  presumably  voters ;  an 
old  woman,  with  a  small  boy,  a  string-bag,  three  bottles 
and  a  dog,  was  determined  to  force  her  way  in. 

"  Oh,  surely,"  said  Platt,  suavely,  "  you'd  much 
rather  go  with  the  other  ladies  ?  " 

"  I  paid  for  my  seat,"  said  the  old  woman.  Then 
she  snapped  the  fasteners  of  her  mouth  and  shoved 
Platt  with  her  shoulder. 

"  Get  on  with  it,  mother,"  grumbled  a  man  behind 


THERESA  153 

who  also  wanted  to  enter  the  bus.  She  turned  on  him. 
"  I  paid  for  my  seat,"  and  once  more  shoved  the  inter- 
vening Platt.  Platt  was  in  agony ;  the  man  was  a  voter, 
and  suffrage  had  not  yet  come  in.  Then  the  man  shoved 
the  old  woman,  and  the  old  woman  shoved  Platt.  And 
Platt  fell  on  a  man  inside  who  shoved  him  back  upon 
the  old  woman,  who  called  him  a  coward.  As  Huncote 
arrived  the  old  woman  burst  into  tears ;  the  dog  tried  to 
hang  itself  with  its  lead ;  the  small  boy  dropped  one  of 
the  bottles  and  set  up  a  piercing  howl  .  .  . 

Somehow  the  busses  got  off,  their  tops  flowering  with 
little  girls  in  pink,  and  blue,  and  white,  and  little  boys 
with  persistent  mouth-organs,  and  men  with  pipes  who 
would  sit  on  the  front  seats  and  tell  those  at  the  back 
what  they  thought  of  them  when  the  ash  blew  back  and 
they  complained.  In  single  file  the  eight  busses  rum- 
bled past  King's  Cross  towards  the  Euston  Road,  the 
mouth-organs  every  moment  shriller  to  the  tune  of 
"  Everybody's  Doing  It."  At  Euston  the  busses  stopped 
to  let  pass  a  volunteer  regiment,  route  marching  to 
Finchley.  The  military  influence,  potent  as  always, 
affected  the  little  girls  so  that  Huncote  could  hear  them 
above  his  head  executing  brisk  and  presumably  warlike 
dances  upon  the  roof. 

The  busses  pounded  on  through  Edgware  Road. 
Above,  as  inner  London  fell  away,  the  sky  passed  from 
pallor  to  a  heavier  blue.  The  passers-by  stopped  to 
smile  while  the  revellers  waved.  Huncote  was  hot  but 
content.  It  was  going  after  all,  as  if  the  splendid  care- 
less merriment  of  the  people  were  carrying  him.  He 
was  alone  with  them  too,  for  there  was  with  him  only 
the  group  captain,  Miss  Cashell.  He  tried  to  talk  to 
her,  but  she  smiled  brightly  and  could  not  reply,  for  on 
the  other  side  a  woman  with  two  babies  was  raucously 
entertaining  her  with  a  story  of  which,  now  and  then, 
through  the  rumblings  of  the  bus,  Huncote  caught  a  re- 
current phrase :  "  'E  wouldn't  'ave  died  if  it  'adn't 


been  for  the  bloater."  He  did  not  enquire  further,  he 
was  too  hot,  rather  tired,  rather  pleased  to  think  that  all 
was  going  well.  And  all  was  going  well.  Now  they 
were  in  the  open  country  before  Edgware  and,  looking 
out,  he  could  see  the  little  girls  standing  up  in  the  bus 
just  behind,  and  above  the  noise  of  the  bus  he  could 
hear  their  song :  "  Everybody's  doing  it,  doing  it, 
doing  it,  Everybody's  doing  it  now." 

There  was  a  break.  His  bus  stopped,  and  then  all 
the  other  busses ;  officially  leaping  out  he  found  a  fierce 
altercation  taking  place  on  bus  Number  Two  between 
the  chauffeur  and  the  father  of  a  small  boy,  because  the 
small  boy,  by  climbing  over  the  rail  and  lying  on  his 
stomach  on  the  hood,  while  two  other  small  boys  held 
his  feet,  persisted  in  tickling  the  chauffeur's  nose  with 
a  twist  of  paper  tied  to  a  string.  The  altercation  was 
being  conducted  amid  uproarious  merriment. 

Still,  all  seemed  to  settle  down;  the  little  boy,  after 
having  been  vindicated  by  his  father,  was  vigorously 
smacked.  And  the  social  began  to  take  its  social  form 
of  splitting  up  into  couples,  while  large  and  elderly 
groups  formed  in  circles  on  the  grass  round  the  bottles 
which  had  been  brought  lest  the  inn  should  prove  stingy. 
Cockshies  had  been  installed,  and  Huncote  found  him- 
self inciting  the  little  boys  to  test  their  skill,  while 
Theresa  was  busy  with  a  number  of  unattached  women 
and  their  babies,  trying  to  lead  them  away  from  the 
grounds  of  the  "  Woolpack "  towards  the  toy  brook 
along  which  hid  forget-me-nots.  She  smiled  at  him  as 
she  passed  but  could  not  speak,  for  she  was  listening  to 
the  woman  with  the  two  babies  who  had  travelled  in 
Huncote's  bus.  He  caught  the  phrase :  "  Got  a  chill 
on  her  lungs  and  died  on  the  Toosday." 

He  had  nothing  to  do ;  he  missed  having  something  to 
do  because  he  had  done  so  much.  The  party  had  set- 
tled into  its  own  merriment :  groups  of  men  were  en- 
gaged with  pipes  and  arguments  as  to  where  they  would 


THERESA  155 

get  the  best  beer,  or  the  time  it  took  by  tram  from 
Crapp's  Lane  to  Westminster  Bridge,  while  the  women 
were  being  confidential,  presumably  obstetric,  and  the 
couples  dived  for  forget-me-nots  with  many  squeaks  when 
ankles  showed,  and  terrors  of  Hero  lest  Leander  should 
drown. 

Still  he  felt  he  had  to  do  something,  so  he  mixed  with 
the  people ;  he  dodged  Beesby,  for  he  saw  in  his  face  that 
an  obscure  resentment  against  something  was  forming 
in  his  brain,  and  he  knew  that  Beesby's  resentments 
were  lengthy.  He  looked  at  a  party  of  girls  who  had  no 
"  young  gentlemen  "  and  were  trying  to  look  select  and 
superior  to  show  they  could  have  had  them  if  they 
wanted.  Vaguely  he  wondered  whether  Miss  Groby 
was  among  them.  She  was  not.  He  gave  them  a  little 
smile  and  went  on.  The  grounds  of  the  "  Woolpack  " 
were  broad  and  beautiful,  for  the  innkeeper  had  not 
enough  money  to  make  a  garden,  and  so  he  had  enclosed 
broad  meadows  of  ragged,  strong  grass  all  flecked  with 
wild  flowers.  And  there  were  even  big  trees  between 
which  the  brushwood  grew  reckless  and  rebelled  against 
the  arbours  into  which  it  had  been  twisted.  He  was 
shy  near  these  arbours  where  already  couples  were  flirt- 
ing in  their  way,  he  not  looking  at  the  girl  and  kicking 
holes  in  the  turf,  she  shrill  or  gabbling,  giving  him  a 
playful  nudge  from  time  to  time.  The  couples  im- 
pressed him.  But  somehow  as  he  went  on  to  the  end 
of  the  grounds  where  there  was  quite  a  large  group 
arguing  as  to  whether  a  certain  elm  was  a  beech,  he 
found  himself  looking  for  somebody.  He  wanted  to 
talk  to  somebody,  and  they  were  all  so  busy ;  there  were 
so  many  he  did  not  know.  It  would  be  nice,  he  thought, 
if  he  could  find  Miss  Groby.  Unconsciously  he  began 
to  look  for  her ;  he  went  beyond  the  groups,  he  went  to 
the  cockshies,  to  the  bowling-green  where  he  found 
Hilda  teaching  a  young  man.  He  passed  on  hurriedly, 
answering  with  a  smile  the  quite  distinct  smile  of  Hilda. 


156     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

He  even  went  into  the  "  Woolpack ",  telling  himself 
that  he  must  have  a  look  at  the  refreshments:  Miss 
Groby  was  not  there.  It  troubled  him  somehow,  and 
he  did  not  know  what  to  do.  He  did  not  like  to  ask 
Mrs.  Ramsey  who  had  just  come  out  with  a  long  list  in 
her  hand.  Mrs.  Ramsey  would  think  —  well,  he  knew 
the  sort  of  thing  Mrs.  Ramsey  generally  thought.  So 
he  turned  back  into  the  social,  telling  himself  that  she 
must  be  somewhere  and  not  asking  himself  why  he 
wanted  to  find  her.  But  at  the  bowling-green  Hilda 
suddenly  abandoned  the  education  of  the  young  man 
and  with  elaborate  carelessness  strolled  away  just  in 
front  of  Huncote :  the  nymph  eluding  the  satyr,  but  not 
running  very  fast. 

Then  she  turned  and,  smiling,  waited  for  him  as  if 
it  were  all  arranged.  He  hesitated ;  of  course  he  must 
talk  to  her.  "  Isn't  it  pretty  ?  "  he  said.  "  Don't  you 
like  the  country  ?  " 

"  Oo  I  do,"  said  Hilda  fervently.  Then  with  mean- 
ing :  "  Is  that  all  there  is  of  it,  the  garden  I  mean  ?  " 

"  All  what  ?  "  asked  Huncote,  not  understanding. 

She  pointed  to  the  arbours.  "  Can't  one  go  further 
than  that  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Huncote,  still  unsuspicious. 
"  Haven't  you  been  ?  " 

"  Eo,"  said  Hilda,  "  I  don't  know  the  way  out." 

Still  obliging  he  showed  her.  They  hesitated  at  the 
gate,  for  Hilda  wondered  whether  it  was  quite  ladylike 
to  lead ;  then  she  created  a  rapturous  smile  and  said : 

"Ain't  it  lovely?" 

There  was  no  gainsaying  that,  for  before  them  the 
meadow  heaved  and  fell  in  the  haze  of  heat  as  if  it 
breathed.  The  lips  of  the  dogroses  opened  as  in  a  smile. 

"  We  might  have  a  look  round,"  said  Hilda  vaguely. 

The  plump  pink  cheeks  developed  dimples,  and  the 
blue  eyes  a  roguish  air.  Hilda  had  watched  the  way 
in  which  Huncote  and  Miss  Groby  had  got  lost  and, 


THERESA  157 

well,  it  was  so  easy  to  get  lost.  He  did  not  understand, 
he  was  not  thinking  of  her  just  then,  for  where  the 
meadow  ended  and  where,  beyond  the  palings,  another 
began,  was  a  deep  cleft  as  if  a  ditch  had  fallen  in.  In 
the  sun  its  sides  were  brilliant  white  and  vivid  rust. 
It  was  not  the  sleepy  hollow,  but  still  it  made  him  think 
of  that  other  hollow,  silent  and  brooding  under  the 
heavy  mournfulness  of  the  hanging  trees,  where  not  so 
long  ago  and  for  a  second,  through  an  ugly  green  cloth 
coat,  he  had  seen  the  shining  flanks  of  chained  An- 
dromeda. Then  he  dragged  himself  out  of  his  dream. 

"  What?  "  he  said.  "  Oh,  I'd  love  to,  but  I've  got 
to  go  back." 

A  burlesque  preoccupation  seized  him  and  he  smiled. 
"  ISTow  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I've  forgotten  to  enquire 
about  the  mustard  and  cress."  He  left  her  suddenly  to 
return  to  the  grounds,  oppressed  by  his  desire  though 
half  unconscious  of  it.  But  he  did  not  find  Miss  Groby. 
To  satisfy  his  conscience  he  enquired  about  the  mustard 
and  cress;  he  even  inspected  the  sandwiches;  he  was 
not  thinking  of  them,  but  wondering  only  where  she 
was.  Through  the  open  windows  on  the  dusty  air  came 
the  song  of  the  social  again :  "  Everybody's  doing  it, 
doing  it,  doing  it,  Everybody's  doing  it  now." 

It  was  much  later  in  the  afternoon.  He  had  had  tea 
with  Theresa,  a  young  man  speechless  before  her  mag- 
nificence, her  special  protegee,  still  with  her  two  babies, 
and  some  old  people  suffering  greatly  from  the  heat  in 
their  black  clothes.  The  conversation  had  limits,  rested 
mainly  on  the  diseases  which  had  afflicted  regrettably 
numerous  relations.  He  went  away  at  last;  he  wanted 
to  be  alone.  He  skirted  the  arbours,  all  tenanted  now; 
he  passed  the  elm  (or  beech)  ;  here  was  a  place  that 
no  one  had  been  to  that  day,  it  seemed :  a  broken  gate, 
a  sloping  path  and  a  ditch,  dry  and  sweet-scented,  that 
bent  back  behind  the  line  of  the  lovers'  arbours.  With 
a  sigh  of  content  he  climbed  down  into  the  ditch,  lit  his 


158     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

pipe  and  for  a  moment  thought  of  nothing.  Then  above 
from  one  of  the  arbours  came  a  voice  he  knew,  Hilda's. 
He  heard  another  voice,  a  girl's.  Hilda  was  being  remi- 
niscent, it  seemed;  he  was  not  ashamed  to  eavesdrop; 
instinctively  he  felt  that  Hilda's  secrets  would  not  be 
much. 

"  '  Young  feller,'  I  says,  '  what  d'yer  take  me  for  ? ' 
He  says  something  about  the  most  charming  lady  of  all, 
or  charming  lady,  I  forgit.  '  'Op  it,'  I  says." 

"  And  did  he  ?  "  asked  the  other  voice. 

There  was  a  giggle.  "  Well,  yer  know,  'e  wasn't 
bad."  Another  giggle.  "  Dark,  yer  know,  and  French. 
'E  'ad  a  funny  name,  'e  'ad ;  Cadress,  'e  said,  or  some- 
thing." 

In  reply  to  a  question :  "  Well,  p'raps  it  wasn't  'is 
real  name,  I  d'no.  Asked  me  to  call  'im  Loosian." 

Huncote  smiled.  He  was  still  too  innocent  to  under- 
stand, but  Hilda  was  shamelessly,  indeed  rather  vain- 
gloriously  retailing  an  adventure  of  the  street.  "  Asked 
me  to  meet  'im,  but  'e  couldn't  'ardly  manage  evenings. 
Sounds  marriedified,  I  said."  Then  yet  another  phrase 
reached  him :  "  Those  Frenchies,  they  are  mustard !  " 
An  interval  and  then  shockedly :  "  No  fear,  wot  d'yer 
take  me  for  ?  " 

He  told  himself  that  he  ought  to  move  away.  He 
was  repelled,  for  Hilda's  voice,  carefully  managed  when 
she  spoke  to  him,  was  shrill,  and  her  grammar  beyond 
leashing.  But  it  seemed  so  trifling,  and  he  was  com- 
fortable with  his  back  against  the  dry  scented  grass  and 
the  smoke  from  his  pipe  rising  in  gentle  spirals,  opaline 
against  the  rich  blue  sky.  But  suddenly  he  was  startled 
by  hearing  his  own  name.  Then  Hilda :  "  That 
dummy  ?  I  don't  think !  Besides,  'e's  mashed  on  Sue." 
He  listened.  Could  not  even  think  of  running  away, 
besides  .  .  .  But  his  uncertainty  was  at  once  dispelled, 
for  evidently  the  other  girl  had  asked  a  question. 
"Don't  know  Sue?"  said  Hilda.  "Sue  Groby,  the 


THERESA  159 

one  with  a  face  like  a  bit  o'  cheddar.  She's  not  'ere 
terday,  got  a  pain  in  'er  stumuk  or  something."  An- 
other pause  during  which  a  curious  excitement  that 
made  his  heart  beat  invaded  the  young  man's  body.  He 
heard  the  beginning  of  another  phrase :  "  They  said 
they  got  lorst  in  the  wood.  Lorst?  I  don't  think! 
Tell  yer  wot  .  .  ."  The  rest  was  whispers  and  giggles, 
but  he  had  recovered  self-control.  With  infinite  cau- 
tion he  stood  up,  crept  out  of  the  ditch.  His  instinct 
was  to  return  to  the  party  and  hide  in  it,  but  Hilda 
might  see  him  go  past,  and  it  would  be  dreadful  if  she 
knew  that  he  knew,  though,  of  course,  it  was  all  non- 
sense. So  he  turned,  intending  to  skirt  the  outer 
meadow  and  to  re-enter  the  "  Woolpack  "  by  the  main 
gate.  But,  as  he  passed,  he  stopped  for  a  moment  to 
look  at  the  hollow  in  which  now  the  rays  of  the  sloping 
sun  made  patches  of  brass.  From  here  he  could  not 
hear  the  party  any  more  and  nothing  indeed,  except  far 
away  the  slow  tinkle  of  a  bell  at  some  cow's  neck.  In 
the  silence  and  the  solitude  of  it  memory  drew  a  veil 
over  his  eyes,  and  for  a  second  he  saw  again  the  sleepy 
hollow,  with  the  cropped  stems  of  the  giant  trees  and 
the  air  of  eternal  dream  and  sorrow,  himself  somehow 
raised  in  an  amazed  delight. 

But  in  the  grounds  where  now  games  were  being 
played,  leapfrog  by  little  boys  who  by  surreptitious 
pinches  had  forced  the  little  girls  into  service,  and  wild 
blindman's  buff  by  elders  who  were  not  very  old,  his 
mood  changed.  This  was  abominable,  he  thought;  it 
was  ridiculous  that  he  should  be  associated  with  a  girl 
like  Sue.  His  thoughts  paused  for  a  moment.  He 
liked  that  name,  its  suggestion  of  faithfulness  and 
earth,  but  he  was  too  angry,  too  disturbed  to  dally.  He 
realised  that  Hilda  must  have  talked  to  others  or  would 
do  so ;  doubtless  he  was  the  laughing-stock  of  the  picnic. 
Doubtless  too  they  thought  he  was  mooning  about  look- 
ing for  her.  She  was  not  there,  he  reflected ;  she  might 


160     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

be  ill,  and  he  thrust  back  a  feeling  of  disquiet  and 
anxiety.  He  did  that  easily,  for  he  was  disliking  Sue ; 
he  blamed  her  for  what  had  happened.  So  great  grew 
his  turmoil  that  when  at  last  later,  the  social  done,  he 
found  himself  on  the  top  front  seat  of  one  of  the  busses, 
side  by  side  with  Theresa,  he  was  silent.  She  looked 
at  him  inquisitively;  she  knew  that  something  had 
ruffled  him  and  was  sorry.  Suddenly  she  bent  a  little 
closer  towards  him :  when  he  looked  at  her,  a  little  to  his 
surprise,  the  soft,  dark  eyes  were  not  mocking  but  ten- 
der. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  murmured,  "  perhaps  it's  not  as  bad 
as  you  think." 

He  had  no  instinct  of  reserve  just  then,  and  in  a  few 
words  told  her.  But  his  phrases  were  broken,  as  if  he 
were  ashamed  and  angry,  till  at  last  Theresa  had  to 
laugh  at  him  a  little. 

"  Don't"  take  it  to  heart,"  she  said.  "  In  the  work 
you  do  that  sort  of  thing's  always  being  said ;  it's  noth- 
ing." He  looked  so  unconvinced  and  wretched  that  she 
grew  airily  cynical.  "  It'll  give  you  more  power,"  she 
said.  "  All  Sue's  rivals  will  work  for  you  like  the  very 
devil  to  try  and  cut  her  out." 

He  did  not  answer;  Theresa  shocked  him  in  those 
moods,  for  he  was  young  and  still  earnest. 

Ill 

When  Theresa  stepped  off  near  the  canal,  a  few  min- 
utes' walk  from  her  flat,  she  did  not  go  home  by  the 
quickest  way.  She  walked  slowly  down  the  western 
bank,  turned  along  Warwick  Avenue,  then,  still  slowly, 
back  again  until  she  reached  the  respectable  mediocrity 
of  Howley  Place.  She  was  thinking,  and  the  soft  mouth 
drooped  a  little  in  every  curve.  \rery  slowly  she 
climbed  the  stairs  to  her  home.  She  was  unhappy.  It 
was  an  awful  shame,  she  felt,  that  he  should  be  troubled 


THERESA  161 

like  this.  Meditatively,  in  her  bedroom,  as  she  took 
off  her  hat  and  made  up  a  fragrant  wash  with  which  to 
remove  the  dust  of  the  afternoon,  she  told  herself  that 
this  sort  of  thing  might  drive  him  out  of  his  work,  and 
what  a  pity  —  for  the  Settlement.  She  paused  in  her 
preparations,  wondering  whether  she  could  help  him, 
shield  his  over-great  sensitiveness  with  a  wisdom  more 
worldly.  She  smiled  and  spoke  aloud :  "  How  silly 
of  me !  I'm  thinking  of  him  as  if  I  were  his  mother." 
She  reflected  that  after  all  she  was  about  three  years 
older,  twenty-six,  nearly  twenty-seven,  and  actually  so 
much  older.  Then  another  mood  took  her ;  quickly  she 
went  up  to  the  dressing-table  and  tilted  the  broad  mir- 
ror. She  remained  for  a  moment  resting  upon  her 
spread  hands,  gazing  into  the  mirror  that  threw  back 
the  long  slimness  of  her  arms  and  the  whiteness  of  a 
neck  perhaps  too  slender.  She  was  knowing  herself  for 
the  first  time,  it  seemed,  looking  as  if  at  a  stranger,  at 
her  thick,  straight  dark  hair,  her  eyes  so  melancholic 
and  too  large,  at  the  mouth  with  curves  that  even  then 
were  merry.  She  remained  so  for  a  long  time,  examin- 
ing as  a  critic  the  pallor  of  her  skin,  the  shape  of  her 
rather  long  cheeks.  Her  thoughts  wandered.  "  I  don't 
think  he  ought  to  have  told  me,"  she  reflected.  And 
again  returned  to  the  picture  in  the  looking-glass.  At 
last,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Theresa  Underwood 
looked  into  her  own  eyes,  smiled  at  her  own  lips,  and 
found  charm  in  the  creature  that  faced  her. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said  aloud  to  the  graceful  thing  in 
the  looking-glass,  "  of  course  it's  all  nonsense  what  that 
girl  said."  The  creature  in  the  looking-glass  laughed 
as  if  it  agreed,  and  as  it  laughed  its  long  white  throat 
swelled  and  was  beautiful  indeed  as  the  stem  of  a  lily 
embraced  of  the  wind. 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND 

THE   DAY    DREAM 


Miss  GROBY  was  making  faces  in  the  mirror  as  she  put 
her  hair  straight.  This  proved  her  femininity.  It  was 
cracked,  which  disturbed  Mrs.  Groby.  "  That'll  bring 
bad  luck,"  she  said.  But  as  it  was  Miss  Groby's  mirror 
and  she  must  choose  between  another  and  some  gloves 
she  wanted  badly,  the  portent  of  evil  remained  on  the 
wall.  Miss  Groby  adjusted  the  many  black  curls  upon 
her  forehead;  she  pulled  down  into  her  belt  the  cotton 
blouse  and  was  for  a  moment  discontented  with  her 
petticoats  which  made  bunches  upon  her  hips.  She 
thought  of  the  advertisements  of  silk  knickers  and 
sighed;  then  she  pulled  herself  up:  somehow  these  ad- 
vertisements looked  fast,  and  Miss  Groby  was  proper. 
Also  she  liked  what  she  could  see  of  her  figure;  she 
turned,  trying  to  see  more  of  it ;  she  did  not  know  that 
her  eyes  were  not  trained  so  as  to  realise  all  its  young 
beauty.  Still  she  backed  away,  raising  her  skirt  a  little 
to  the  right  and  left  as  if  to  curtsey.  She  grew  aware 
of  her  mother  in  the  doorway.  "  Somebody's  sprucing 
herself  up,"  said  Mrs.  Groby  comfortably.  She  smiled. 
She  was  an  agreeable  faded  woman  of  about  fifty,  with 
fairish  hair  drawn  away  rather  tight  from  her  forehead ; 
she  stood  in  her  familiar  attitude,  hands  clasped  upon 
her  apron.  Miss  Groby  flung  her  a  smile.  Mrs.  Groby 
continued  amiably  to  chaff  her.  "  Looks  as  if  Mr. 
Eight  had  come  along,"  she  remarked  over  Miss  Groby's 
head.  "  Wait  till  Bert  comes ;  I'll  tell  on  yer !  " 

Miss   Groby  laughed;   she  was  not   afraid  of  her 


THE  DAY  DREAM  163 

mother.  Indeed  she  changed  her  boots  for  another  pair 
the  heels  of  which  were  less  worn.  Mrs.  Groby  watched 
her  affectionately.  "  Arsk  yer  old  mother  ter  the  wed- 
ding," she  went  on,  "  it's  a  wedding  sure  enough ;  fine 
feathers  make  fine  birds." 

"  Don't  be  silly,  mother,"  said  Miss  Groby.  She  ad- 
justed her  hat  carefully  on  the  very  back  of  her  head, 
kissed  her  mother  on  the  cheek  and  went  out.  When 
she  had  gone  Mrs.  Groby  inspected  the  room,  which  was 
in  disorder,  as  if  Sue  had  dressed  hurriedly.  The 
boots,  notably,  looked  disreputable  as  if  Sue  had  flung 
them  down  like  a  challenge.  Mrs.  Groby  collected  the 
boots,  put  everything  straight,  and  looked  at  the  room 
with  satisfaction.  There  was  a  large  bed  for  Sue  and 
Muriel,  a  wash-handstand  with  a  short  leg  remedied  by 
a  tile.  These,  with  a  chest  of  drawers  that  one  had  to 
fight  before  one  could  get  its  drawers  open,  and  some 
chairs  that  had  (very  long  ago)  dwelt  in  marble  halls, 
were  the  necessaries.  The  luxuries  comprised :  over  the 
mantelpiece  a  coloured  Christmas  supplement  of  the 
Illustrated  London  News  in  which  a  policeman  with 
mutton-chop  whiskers  stopped  the  traffic  for  "  His  Maj- 
esty, the  Baby."  On  the  right,  a  picture  of  Miss  Gertie 
Millar;  on  the  left,  the  mourning  card  of  Great-aunt 
Elizabeth.  Upon  the  mantelpiece  was  a  scattered  col- 
lection of  Sue's  treasures,  a  Goss  mug  from  Hastings, 
a  picture  postcard  in  which  a  young  couple  that  looked 
like  wax-works  floated,  together  with  a  chair,  in  a  cloud 
of  flowers.  On  the  wall  beside  the  bed  was  an  immense 
sampler  with  the  letters  "  F.C."  in  the  corner:  a  pres- 
ent from  Mrs.  Groby's  mother.  Sue  had  enlivened  its 
antiquity  by  nailing  under  it  another  picture  postcard 
whose  poetry  touched  her: 

"When  hand  in  hand  we  two  go  roaming 
Through  memories  of  long  ago, 
And  of  life  we  have  reached  the  gloaming, 
You'll  be  so  glad  you  didn't  say :     '  No.' " 


164     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Groby  aloud,  "  girls  will  be 
girlg!" 

II 

It  was  not  far  from  Paradise  Eow  to  the  Settlement, 
but  Sue  walked  quickly  as  she  always  did  when  alone. 
She  was  self-conscious  alone.  She  did  not  even  stop 
to  look  into  the  picture  postcard  shops,  for  she  would 
not  like  to  be  caught  by  a  friend  looking  at  a  vulgar 
exhibition.  Two  girls  together  .  .  .  that  was  differ- 
ent; one  could  nudge  the  other  and  always  pretend  it 
was  the  other  who  stopped.  Besides,  she  was  in  a 
hurry,  and  she  delayed  only  for  one  moment  to  buy  a 
pennyworth  of  chocolates  which  she  munched  all  the 
way  to  the  Settlement.  At  the  corner  of  the  High 
Street  she  was  tempted  to  stop  because  a  horse  had 
fallen  across  the  tram  lines.  A  fallen  horse  always 
gave  her  beautiful  thrills,  half  of  pity  and  half  of  de- 
sire that  somebody  should  be  kicked:  sensationalism. 
But  that  day  she  was  purposeful  without  knowing  it, 
urged  on  unawares.  One  of  the  young  fellows  from 
Bubwith's,  who  had  come  out  ostensibly  to  inspect  the 
windows,  wished  her  good  evening.  She  raised  her  chin 
and  walked  on  without  looking  back.  Not  to-night,  she 
thought.  It  would  not  have  been  much  if  it  had  been 
to-night:  Sue  had  had  her  flirtations,  many  of  them, 
flirtations  of  the  "  no-fear  "  and  "  don't-make-so-free  " 
kind,  begun  at  fourteen  on  monkey  parade  at  the  north- 
ern end  of  High  Street,  but  they  never  developed  into 
much  more  than  a  walk  in  Finsbury  Park. 

And  so,  broad  shouldered,  decision  in  her  sturdy 
limbs,  clear  eyes  placid  and  purposeful,  she  knocked 
at  the  door  of  Huncote's  office. 

He  was  sitting  there,  doing  nothing.  He  was  tired. 
The  events  at  the  social  had  disturbed  him  and,  in  spite 
of  Theresa's  sympathy,  he  found  it  difficult  to  go  on 


THE  DAY  DREAM  165 

with  his  work.  He  had  thought  of  giving  it  up,  had 
not  done  so  because  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  He 
had  decided  to  avoid  Miss  Groby  so  as  to  keep  down  the 
scandal;  then,  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm,  he  had  de- 
cided to  face  it  out.  Also  he  had  met  with  the  minor 
troubles  of  office:  all  that  afternoon  one  of  the  dilly- 
dallytantes  had  been  with  him,  explaining  to  him  that 
he  did  not  understand  the  elemental  nature  of  the  peo- 
ple. It  was  one  of  the  young  novelists,  one  of  the  young 
novelists  who  marry  respectably  but  write  an  annual 
novel  to  induce  other  people  to  abandon  the  civil  service, 
sell  potatoes  on  a  barrow,  and  make  illegal  love  to 
duchesses  and  cooks.  A  very  tiring  young  man.  So, 
wearily,  he  said :  "  Come  in." 

Sue  came  in  boldly,  throwing  out  her  figure,  as  if 
saying :  "  Don't  you  give  me  none  of  your  cheek,"  but 
at  once  found  herself  bashful.  The  man  was  quite  as 
bashful.  The  emotions  of  the  past  week  crystallised: 
his  discomfort  because  their  names  were  coupled,  the 
dislike  he  had  conceived  of  her,  the  memory  of  the 
silent  hollow.  And  she  who  had  been  so  angry  because 
on  the  day  of  the  social  an  awful  cold  caused  her  to  miss 
what  she  thought  was  the  social,  what  she  would  not  own 
was  possible  adventure,  felt  coy.  She  stood  before  him, 
knotting  and  unknotting  her  fingers.  But  the  tension 
was  short.  Huncote  smiled  and  said :  "  Good  even- 
ing." And  she :  "  I  hope  you  don't  mind  me  coming 
like  this?" 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  said  Huncote.  Then  he 
wondered  why  she  came. 

"  It's  like  this,"  said  Sue  hurriedly.  "  There's  an 
old  lady  down  our  street  who  wants  a  picture.  She 
came  in  the  other  night  to  see  mother,  and  she  did  look 
at  that  one  you  gave  me.  You  know,  all  those  girls  on 
the  staircase." 

"  Is  that  the  one  she  wants  ?  "  asked  Huncote. 

"  Well,  she  didn't  ask  for  one  exactly ;  she  just  looked 


166     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

and  looked,  couldn't  take  her  eyes  off  it,  and  so  I 
thought — "  She  stopped. 

"  Oh,"  said  Huncote.  He  was  touched.  Miss  Groby 
then  had  not  waited  for  the  old  woman  to  ask ;  she  had 
read  the  hunger  in  the  old  woman's  eyes.  But  Sue  was 
talking  again  now,  hurried,  as  if  conscious  that  she  had 
advertised  a  sweetness  in  herself,  which  made  her  shy. 
It  seemed  that  Mrs.  Back  was  an  invalid,  that  she  was 
expecting  her  soldier  son  home.  No  doubt  the  soldier 
son  liked  pictures  too.  So  Huncote  went  out  and  in  a 
minute  or  two  came  back  with  an  autotype,  framed  in 
Australian  oak. 

"  Sorry,"  he  said,  "  we  haven't  any  more  of  the  girls 
on  the  staircase.  Give  her  this  one  instead."  He 
handed  her  "  Love  and  Life."  "  But  I  expect  she'll 
like  it  even  better  just  because  it's  different  from 
yours." 

She  took  the  picture,  glanced  at  it,  said  nothing,  and 
slipped  it  under  her  arm.  Then  for  a  moment  she  re- 
mained twisting  her  fingers  and  shifting  her  feet.  She 
liked  being  with  Huncote,  though  he  embarrassed  her, 
so  she  did  not  want  to  go;  also  she  wanted  to  go  but 
didn't  know  how  to. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  must  be  going,"  she  said,  at  length. 

But  half  an  hour  later  a  giggling,  exceedingly  embar- 
rassed, rather  blushing  Sue  returned.  She  laid  the  pic- 
ture on  Huncote's  desk  with  its  face  down  and  remained 
silent,  her  hands  upon  his  desk,  most  uncomfortable  and 
yet  conscious  that  she  was  wearing  new  gloves. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Huncote,  "  what  is  it  ?  "  He  took  up 
the  picture  and  looked  at  it.  "  Didn't  Mrs.  Back  like 
it  ?  "  He  looked  at  Sue.  There  was  no  mistake  now 
about  the  colour  that  had  come  into  the  olive  cheeks. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  those  girls  on  the  staircase, 
they'd  —  well  —  clothes,  you  know." 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  understand,  then  he  laughed. 
It  appeared  that  the  old  lady  was  very,  very  shocked. 


THE  DAY  DREAM  167 

Miss  Groby  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  a  monster. 
How  could  one  laugh  ?  She  too  thought  that  wasn't  a 
quite  nice  picture,  though  she  didn't  like  to  say  so. 

At  last  Huncote  said: 

"-Well,  we  must  give  her  something  else.  What 
d'you  think  she'd  like  ? "  She  wanted  to  rush  out  of 
the  room;  he  made  her  so  self-conscious  by  asking  her 
opinion ;  then  she  mumbled : 

"  Mrs.  Back  said  she  wanted  a  sweet  picture,  you 
know,  like  *  The  Peacemaker ',  with  the  two  girls,  and 
the  young  man  going  away  at  the  back."  The  dark 
eyes  grew  serious.  "  Ain't  it  lovely  ?  "  she  murmured. 

Huncote  did  not  know  what  to  say;  he  had  not  the 
heart  to  tell  her  that  it  was  not  the  mission  of  the  Set- 
tlement to  spread  the  gospel  of  Mr.  Marcus  Stone.  Still 
—  she  looked  so  serious.  Suddenly  she  leant  over 
towards  him  with  excitement  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Huncote,  do  give  it  to  her ;  she's  got  it  into 
her  head,  she  has,  and  she  says  she  wants  to  show  it  to 
her  Jim.  It's  a  nice  picture,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

Still  Huncote  temporised. 

"  It's  a  picture  with  a  pretty  idea."  He  hated  him- 
self for  lying,  but  what  was  he  to  do  ?  Then  he  tried 
to  soothe  his  conscience.  "  You  see,  Miss  Groby,"  he 
said,  "  I  hardly  know  how  to  put  it, —  but  there  are 
two  sorts  of  pictures,  the  pictures  that  give  you  an  emo- 
tion, a  feeling,  you  see  what  I  mean,  and  the  other  kind 
which  don't  matter  as  pictures  but  suggest  — "  He 
stopped,  trying  to  be  lucid.  "  Pictures  which  suggest 
things  that  happen  outside  the  picture,  like  a  story." 

"  Every  picture  tells  a  story,"  said  Miss  Groby 
dreamily. 

Huncote  paused.     How  could  he  answer  this  ? 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "  but  don't  you  see  it's  not  the 
story  of  the  picture  you  want  but  the  story  of  what  you 
feel  when  you  look  at  it,  the  drama  of  your  own  soul. 
That's  why  those  pictures  of  three  generations  in  a  gar- 


168     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

den,  for  instance,  or  lovers  saying  good-by  at  a  stile, 
aren't  good  pictures ;  they  take  you  away  from  yourself 
into  the  lives  of  the  people  they  show  you;  they  try  to 
make  you  emotional  about  the  people  instead  of  making 
you  emotional  about  yourself.  That's  being  sentimen- 
tal; it's  forced,  it's  artificial,  don't  you  see  what  I 
mean  ? " 

Miss  Groby  looked  at  him  unsmiling,  and  he  thought 
he  saw  some  response  in  the  soft  eyes,  an  anxiety  in 
the  thick  mouth,  parted  and  curling  sweetly  back  as 
the  lip  of  a  crimson  flower.  She  had  wrinkled  her 
heavy  black  brows  in  an  effort  to  understand  him,  and 
she  looked  into  his  eyes  as  if  she  did  not  see  him,  but 
sought  something  behind  them.  She  sighed;  she  did 
not  understand,  but  she  thought  it  all  very  wonderful. 
Still  a  preoccupation  was  strong  upon  her;  the  frown 
vanished,  and  she  said  inconsequently : 

"  Mrs.  Back  will  be  so  disappointed  if  she  doesn't 
get  it ;  you  might  give  it  her." 

"  All  right,"  said  Huncote,  "  I  haven't  got  one,  but 
I'll  take  her  one  to-morrow." 

"  She  must  have  it  to-morrow,"  said  Sue  urgently, 
"  because  her  Jim's  coming  back  to-morrow  night.  You 
won't  forget,  will  you  ?  " 

He  laughed;  her  anxiety  was  as  sweet  as  it  was 
childish. 

"  I'll  get  two  while  I'm  about  it,  and  you  can  have 
one  too." 

Sue's  eyes  seemed  to  grow  larger  and  more  lucent. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said,  with  a  little  gasp,  "  it  is  kind  of 
you,  Mr.  Huncote;  but  you  won't  forget  Mrs.  Back, 
will  you  ? " 

III 

Bert  Caldwell  walked  impatiently  up  and  down  the 
mews.  There  was  a  frown  on  his  nice  fair  face  and 
an  angry  note  in  the  Soldiers'  Chorus  which  he  was 


THE  DAY  DREAM  169 

whistling.  Bert's  taste  in  tunes  expressed  him:  no 
music-hall  catches  for  him ;  not  even  his  whistling  could 
be  illiterate,  and  so  to-night  it  was  the  Soldiers'  Chorus 
as  on  others  it  was  the  Entry  of  the  Pilgrims  into  the 
Warburg,  or  Divinite  du  Styx.  He  shifted,  for  he  al- 
ways shifted ;  he  was  restless  and  that  night  impatient 
because  Sue  was  late.  She  was  to  meet  him  in  the 
mews  which  ran  out  of  John  Street  almost  opposite  his 
workshop  because,  the  day  done,  when  the  dusk  fell  the 
mews  were  so  narrow  and  so  dark  that  he  could  kiss  her 
unobserved.  At  last  he  took  from  his  pocket  some  notes 
of  remarks  he  wished  to  make  at  the  Social  Democratic 
Federation  meeting.  He  wanted  to  swear,  but  this,  he 
felt,  would  show  lack  of  self-control.  He  was  almost 
.  absorbed  in  his  notes  when  Sue  came  into  the  mews  with 
the  air  of  somebody  who  is  taking  an  aimless  walk. 

"  Hallo !  "  she  said  airily. 

"  So  there  you  are,"  Bert  grumbled.     "  Late  again." 

"  Couldn't  help  it,  Bert,  detained  by  pressing  busi- 
ness." 

"  Oh,  you  were,  were  you  ? "  said  Bert,  sarcastic, 
though  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  She  looked  at 
him  for  a  moment  and  wished  he  were  not  so  serious. 
She  did  not  exactly  know  what  she  wanted,  but  if  Bert 
had  been  a  little  more  like  the  young  fellows  from  Bub- 
with's  and  said  something  about  having  heard  of  press- 
ing business  taking  place  in  the  office  on  the  boss's  knee 
it  would  have  been  all  right.  Still,  her  mission  was  to 
please,  and  at  once  she  pleased.  She  said  nothing,  but 
merely  looked  at  him,  parting  a  little  more  those  curling 
red  lips,  looking  together  reproachful,  desirous,  and 
careless.  The  look  availed;  without  a  word  he  flung 
both  arms  round  her  and,  drawing  her  close,  kissed  the 
parted  mouth,  bending  her  back  as  if  he  hated  her, 
wanted  to  break  her.  They  remained  so  clasped  for 
some  moments  until  at  last  Sue  freed  herself. 

"  My  word !  "  she  said.     "  What  d'you  think  you're 


1VO     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

up  to  ? "  She  laughed  the  soft  low  laugh  of  woman 
hurt  and  glad.  Bert  did  not  reply,  but  still  held  her,  if 
more  loosely.  At  that  moment  his  idealism  was  fas- 
tened on  Sue  who  embodied  the  grace  and  beauty  which 
would  be  given  to  the  world  when  socialism  came  about 
and  he  was  dead.  She  was  the  scrap  of  dream  given 
him,  an  instalment  of  Paradise.  He  looked  at  her  very 
seriously,  and  if  only  she  had  understood  better  she 
would  have  known  how  she  held  him,  how  if  told  to  he 
would  have  starved  for  her  and  died  for  her  without 
saying  anything  about  it,  or  even  expecting  much.  It 
was  enough  that  she  should  let  him  love  her. 

The  moment  passed,  the  tension  ceased.  With  linked 
arms  they  passed  into  John  Street,  but  in  Crapp's  Lane 
turned  to  the  right  so  that  they  might  pass  the  town 
hall  and  lengthen  the  distance  to  Paradise  Eow.  For 
Bert  was  a  respectable  young  man  and  no  lodger ;  after 
his  walk  with  Sue  he  would  go  back  to  his  room,  have  a 
wash,  read  his  notes  over  his  tea,  and  then  go  on  to  the 
branch  meeting,  conscious  that  no  man  could  meet  his 
arguments  and  no  woman  equal  the  grace  of  his  beloved. 
They  were  light  just  then,  and  they  stopped  for  a  long 
time  outside  a  picture  palace  to  look  at  the  posters.  A 
great  three-reel  drama  was  billed  for  that  week:  "  Mel- 
ville of  the  Swell  Mob."  Bert  criticised  the  chief  pic- 
ture which  represented  a  raid  by  American  policemen 
on  a  gambling  house  where  the  men  wore  evening  clothes 
with  double  collars,  and  the  ladies  high-low-cut 
frocks. 

"  Oo,"  said  Sue,  "  I'd  like  to  see  that,  Bert." 

"  Can't  take  you  to-night,"  said  Bert,  "  got  to  go  to 
the  meeting." 

"  Well,  let's  go  to-morrow  night." 

"  Don't  think  I  can.  I'm  likely  to  be  on  the  job  at 
the  fire  station.  Besides,  it  may  be  no  good ;  you  can't 
tell  from  a  picture." 

Sue  did  not  reply;  her  first  feeling  had  been  one  of 


THE  DAY  DREAM  171 

annoyance  because  her  lover  did  not  give  her  all  his 
time;  but  his  criticism  of  the  picture  awoke  another 
echo.  What  was  it  she  had  been  told  about  a  picture 
not  telling  a  story?  She  was  not  quite  sure,  but  still 
she  felt  it  ought  not  to  tell  a  story,  it  ought  to  do  some- 
thing else,  she  did  not  know  what.  But  anyhow  —  not 
what  Bert  said.  For  a  long  time  she  stood  gazing  at  the 
raid  on  the  gambling  house,  seeking  for  the  drama  in 
her  own  soul. 

"  Coom  on,"  said  Bert,  shoving  her  with  his  shoulder 
and  affecting  a  north  country  accent. 

It  annoyed  her  vaguely,  for  she  was  still  thinking  in 
her  way  of  the  meaning  of  art. 

"  Oo  yer  pushin'  ?  "  she  asked  tartly. 

"  You,"  said  Bert,  with  resolute  wit. 

"  Well,  don't  make  so  free." 

"  Who's  making  free  ?  " 

"You  are." 

"  No,  I'm  not." 

"Yes,  you  are." 

The  conversation  straggled  away  into  contradictions 
which  were  repeated  seven  or  eight  times  by  each  party. 
But  this  was  only  the  froth  of  courtship,  and  amicably 
enough  she  accompanied  him  into  the  tobacconist's.  He 
bought  twenty  Hadji  Mahomets,  and  she  irritated  him 
by  asking  him  for  a  woodbine.  Bert  Caldwell  earned 
thirty-five  shillings  a  week;  so  he  bought  Hadji  Ma- 
homets at  two  shillings  and  twopence  a  hundred.  It 
was  rather  raspy,  this  conversation,  disjointed.  Sue 
tried  to  tell  her  lover  about  the  fine  old  row  with  one 
of  the  great  ladies  at  Highbury  over  a  torn  lace  hand- 
kerchief, but  he  interrupted  her;  lace  handkerchiefs  al- 
ways made  him  angry. 

"  Lace  handkerchiefs !  "  he  snarled ;  "  that's  the  sort 
of  thing  that  goes  on  while  the  people  starve.  Lace 
handkerchiefs  while  the  working  man  hasn't  got  a  shirt ! 
But  it  won't  go  on,  I  tell  you,  won't  go  on  long.  You 


172     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

wait  till  we've  captured  the  State  machine.  We'll  make 
an  end  of  your  fine  ladies  at  Highbury." 

"  But  how  will  mother  make  a  living,"  asked  Sue,  "  if 
there  aren't  no  more  lace  handkerchiefs  ? " 

Bert  seized  her  by  the  wrist  as  if  to  shake  her. 

"  How  many  times  have  I  told  you  not  to  say  that  ?  " 
he  shouted.  "  Don't  you  understand  yet  about  produc- 
tive and  non-productive  employment  ?  I've  told  you  a 
thousand  times.  Instead  of  making  jewellery  and 
scent,  and  all  that  sort  of  muck,  people  will  be  making 
steam  ploughs." 

"  Ma  couldn't  make  steam  ploughs,"  said  Sue  obsti- 
nately. 

Caldwell  lost  his  temper.  Still  holding  her  by  the 
wrist  he  addressed  her  at  the  corner  of  Crapp's  Lane, 
not  at  all  deterred  by  two  costers  with  a  barrowful  of 
bananas,  who  encouraged  him  by  ironic  cheers. 

"  Social  revolution,"  Caldwell  shouted,  "  the  wages 
of  ability  —  the  House  of  Lords,  blackguards,  scoun- 
drels, corruptionists  — " 

Sue  was  very  angry:  making  a  fool  of  her  in  the 
street!  She  shook  herself  free,  nursing  her  bruised 
wrist.  And  she  thought :  "Of  course  it's  his  work, 
he  can't  help  it,  but  I  do  wish  he  hadn't  got  black  nails 
like  that.  Why  can't  he  have  nails  like  —  like  —  ?  " 


IV, 

With  "  The  Peacemaker  "  wrapped  in  brown  paper, 
under  his  arm,  Roger  Huncote  turned  into  Clare  Street. 
It  was  the  next  day  and  he  had  not  forgotten.  But  just 
as  he  entered  Paradise  Square  where  innumerable  chil- 
dren were  circling,  screaming  like  gulls,  about  the  little 
pond  so  full  of  dirt  that  no  fish  could  live  in  it,  it  sud- 
denly struck  him  that  he  had  forgotten  Mrs.  Back's 
address;  or  perhaps  Sue  had  not  told  him.  Anyhow, 


THE  DAY  DREAM  173 

there  he  was,  not  knowing  where  to  go  and  heavily  re- 
sponsible to  Mrs.  Back  for  the  treat  she  was  to  give  her 
soldier  son.  He  stopped,  irresolute.  Then  he  won- 
dered why  he  was  in  Paradise  Square  at  all ;  evidently 
she  must  live  close  by,  but  where  ?  He  remembered  that 
Mrs.  Back  was  one  of  Mrs.  Groby's  neighbours  as  she 
had  come  in  in  the  evening ;  he  knew  enough  of  St.  Pan- 
wich  to  realise  that  calls  of  this  sort  were  paid  only 
within  the  limits  of  a  street,  perhaps  of  a  house.  He 
knew  where  Mrs.  Groby  lived,  in  a  tenement  house,  but 
he  had  not  the  fortitude  to  knock  at  every  door,  asking 
for  Mrs.  Back.  He  had  done  that  once  in  another  case : 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  young  lady  in  an  advanced 
state  of  rouge  and  peroxide,  and  in  a  non-advanced  state 
of  toilet,  who  said :  "  Hallo,  darling,  how  did  you  find 
me  out  ?  "  He  had  better  go  to  Mrs.  Groby,  he  thought, 
and  ask  her. 

Mrs.  Groby  lived  in  what  was  more  than  a  house ;  it 
was  four  houses  knocked  into  one  and  divided  up  into 
endless  tenements ;  it  was  five  o'clock,  and  the  building 
hummed  with  sounds:  crockery  being  set  out  for  the 
children's  tea,  perhaps,  or  washed;  screams,  expostula- 
tions, spankings.  And  there  was  a  smell  too,  the  smell 
of  poverty:  old  clothes,  food,  pungent  washing.  He 
remembered  it  was  on  the  third  floor,  for  he  had  so  ad- 
dressed "  The  Golden  Staircase " ;  as  he  went  up  he 
smiled  at  his  own  embarrassment;  he  had  never  seen 
Mrs.  Groby,  but  no  doubt  she  was  an  amiable  person; 
only  Sue  might  be  there  too,  and  in  his  role  of  Lord 
Bountiful  he  would  feel  awkward.  As  he  passed  the 
second  floor  he  heard  from  above  a  cheerful,  middle- 
aged  voice,  mixed  with  the  swish-swish  of  what  was 
probably  a  wet  rag  drawn  along  the  floor.  The  voice 
sang : 

"  Liza's  tootsies,  Liza's  feet, 
You  can  bet  they'll  take  the  cake, 
Will  Liza's  plates  of  meat." 


THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Mrs.  Groby,  as  she  washed  the  floor,  was  cheering  her- 
self with  the  long-dead  song  of  some  cave  of  harmony. 
Huncote  knocked.  Mrs.  Groby  was  alone  and  rather 
confused  at  being  "  caught  like  this  ",  as  she  put  it. 
While  he  explained  she  tried  to  dry  her  hands  on  the 
wet  rag;  she  was  all  apology  because  everything  was  at 
sixes  and  sevens.  Unfortunately  she  could  not  help 
him;  she  seemed  to  think  very  hard  while  Huncote  in- 
spected the  room, —  a  kitchen  in  the  corner  of  which 
was  a  small  bed.  He  was  used  to  these  living-room 
kitchens  now,  and  he  did  not  observe  very  closely  the 
saucepans  crowded  on  the  table  by  the  side  of  a  gaping 
paper-packet  of  hot  chips,  for  he  heard  stirrings  and 
voices  in  the  next  room:  Sue  perhaps,  and  he  embar- 
rassed and  restless.  At  last  Mrs.  Groby  said : 

"  Well,  sir,  I  can't  tell  yer ;  Mrs.  Back's  a  friend  of 
Sue's,  she  is ;  I  can't  tell  yer." 

Huncote  asked  whether  Miss  Groby  was  in. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Groby,  "  she's  at  the  washhouse 
round  the  corner.  There's  a  Highbury  lady  rather  in 
a  hurry  for  her  netted  d'oyleys,  as  she  calls  'em."  Mrs. 
Groby  looked  self-conscious  and  proud.  "  You  wouldn't 
think  'ow  clever  that  girl  is  with  lace,  sir.  It  ain't  work 
they  can  do  at  them  steam  laundries." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Huncote.  His  difficulty 
stood,  for  his  conscience  was  tender,  and  he  could  not 
bear  to  think  that  Mrs.  Back  should  not  have  a  picture 
to  show  her  son.  He  told  Mrs.  Groby,  who  at  once  grew 
sympathetic. 

The  door  opened,  and  two  children  came  in.  They 
were  quite  undistinguished,  brown-haired,  blue-eyed 
children,  aged  about  fourteen.  They  remained  at  the 
door,  side  by  side,  staring  at  Huncote,  the  boy  rather 
truculent,  the  girl  shy  and  flirtatious. 

"  Get  along  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Groby  amiably. 
"  Twins,"  she  explained  to  Huncote. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  young  man,  embarrassed.     He 


THE  DAY  DREAM  175 

was  told  about  the  twins  and  how  Perce  was  through  the 
sixth  standard  at  the  Clare  Street  Council  school. 
While  Muriel  — 

"Muriel's  quite  the  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Groby  archly. 
And  she  once  more  bewailed  the  fact  that  she  had  not 
Mrs.  Back's  address.  It  was  Muriel  solved  the  diffi- 
culty. Apparently  not  so  shy  after  all  she  stepped  for- 
ward, looking  at  Huncote  like  a  peasant  that  worships 
a  blessed  medal  and  yet  feels  he  is  the  owner  of  it. 

"  If  I  may  make  a  suggestion,"  she  said,  in  a  very 
elocuted  tone,  "  Mr.  Huncote  could  ask  my  sister  if  he 
would  go  round  to  the  washhouse." 

Huncote  laughed  at  the  precise  mincing  child.  He 
was  later  to  understand  that  Muriel  was  too  refined  and 
democratic  to  run  a  message ;  he  was  to  see  connections 
between  her  and  others  of  her  class,  to  understand  why 
Mrs.  Groby  spoke  so  badly,  her  elder  daughter  rather 
uncertainly,  her  youngest  quite  well,  too  well;  to  un- 
derstand the  steady  rise  in  the  people.  But  just  then 
he  was  grateful  for  the  hint.  Pursued  by  Mrs.  Groby's 
apologies,  he  went  down  the  stairs.  They  had  all  been 
so  flustered  and  artificial.  How  awkward !  He  paused 
to  remember  where  the  washhouse  was  and,  as  he 
thought,  above  him  he  heard  the  resumption  in  song  of 
Mrs.  Groby's  ordinary  life : 

"Liza's  tootsies,  Liza's  feet, 
You  can  bet  they'll  take  the  cake, 
Will  Liza's  plates  of  meat." 

The  distance  was  so  little,  as  the  washhouse  was  next 
door  to  the  schools,  that  he  had  no  time  to  collect  em- 
barrassment. Nor  was  he  stopped  by  the  old  woman 
who  sat  in  a  sort  of  glass  case,  knitting;  her  function 
was  to  collect  the  twopences.  She  threw  him  a  quick 
look,  decided  he  must  be  somebody  connected  with  the 
Council  and  at  once,  all  but  for  the  swift  movement  of 
her  hands,  grew  as  the  programme  seller  at  Madame 


176     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Tussaud's.  For  a  moment  he  paused  at  the  entrance. 
This  was  a  queer,  new  atmosphere,  rather  dark.  Little 
by  little  he  saw  some  twenty  bays,  in  two  rows  of  ten, 
each  one  facing  a  window  of  frosted  glass.  He  had  a 
sensation  of  wideness,  stone  floors ;  an  acrid  smell  that 
was  pleasant  and  penetrating,  struck  him;  there  was 
heat  and  steam  too.  Half -hesitating,  he  went  along  the 
central  alley  of  ribbed  wood  under  which  ran  a  soft 
trickle  of  warm  water.  There  was  hardly  anybody  in 
the  washhouse,  for  this  was  Friday  afternoon,  the  laun- 
dress's holiday.  There  were  women  in  only  four  of 
the  bays,  and  as  he  paused  he  saw  broad  backs,  immense 
hips ;  one  woman  who  was  vigorous  was  banging  a  white 
lump,  making  squelches  of  soap  with  her  other  hand 
and  vigorous  scrapings  with  her  feet.  That  laundress 
was  all  deafening  movement.  They  were  so  busy  that 
they  did  not  hear  him  go  past,  or  the  vigorous  laundress 
covered  the  sound  of  his  footsteps.  He  passed  bay  after 
bay,  shy,  as  if  intruding  upon  some  feminine  rite;  one 
of  the  women  had  taken  her  blouse  off,  and  he  felt 
guilty.  In  the  last  bay  but  one,  next  to  which  a  tap 
was  giving  off  a  little  steam,  he  came  upon  Sue.  And 
it  was  like  discovery,  so  alone  did  she  seem  between  the 
high  partitions,  isolated  by  the  thin  cloud  of  steam  be- 
yond which  was  the  world  and  the  steady  bang  of  the 
wet  linen.  He  hesitated,  then  entered  the  bay. 

As  he  went  in  Sue  turned,  and  an  expression  such 
as  he  had  never  seen  upon  a  woman's  face  came  over 
her  features.  Surprise  and  excitement,  and  a  little 
fear.  She  stood  before  him,  arms  rather  apart,  staring. 
Huncote  heard  himself  speak  hurriedly,  not  very  co- 
herently, explaining  his  difficulty  about  the  old  woman. 
There  was  a  silence ;  then :  "  Oh,"  said  Sue,  rather 
jerkily,  "  she  lives  at  number  5,  Robert  Street,  third 
floor."  She  too  was  distrait.  "  Back's  the  name,"  she 
added.  Then  she  grew  silent  and  he  too,  as  if  neither 
quite  knew  what  the  other  said  and  knew  that  the  other 


THE  DAY  DREAM  177 

did  not  know.  It  was  a  long  silence  which,  as  it  grew 
heavier,  grew  more  meaningful.  She  was  half -shy,  but 
he  did  not  know  what  she  had  said,  for  he  was  looking 
at  a  woman,  not  listening  to  a  fellow  creature's  speech. 
Here  was  no  longer  the  young  girl  in  the  absurd  green 
cloth  coat,  with  the  hat  upon  the  back  of  her  head  and 
the  many  roses.  Here  nothing  artificial,  nothing  pre- 
pared to  please  or  impress  him,  but  the  appeal  of  youth, 
half -passionate,  half-tender.  She  had  tucked  up  to  her 
knees  her  skirts  and  petticoats  and  tied  them  with  cord ; 
the  sleeves  of  her  blue  blouse  rolled  up  almost  to  her 
shoulders  showed  long,  firm  arms,  softly  moulded,  ivory- 
pale  as  a  tea-rose,  and  shadowed  with  soft  dark  down. 
For  a  moment  he  looked  only  at  the  shadows,  creamy- 
dark  with  a  touch  of  green,  that  lay  in  the  hollows  of 
the  arms.  Obscurely,  he  was  conscious  of  her,  rather 
saw  her  as  part  of  the  scene,  of  that  dull  being  behind 
him  and  the  whisper  of  escaping  steam.  Then  he  saw 
her  better,  more  mysterious  and  yet  evident.  Her 
blouse  was  open  at  the  neck ;  the  clear  olive  of  her  skin 
was  flushed  with  heat.  He  saw  every  detail  of  her: 
the  broad,  mannish  shoulders,  the  body  tapering  towards 
the  hips,  and  the  hurried  rise  and  fall  of  the  full  breasts, 
young,  pointing  to  the  right  and  left  as  those  of  fleeing 
Diana.  There  was  more  pathos  than  seduction  in  the 
young  body,  because  so  unspoilt. 

He  spoke  again  and  knew  his  words  were  uncertain, 
and  she  replied  smiling,  a  little  as  if  she  thought  of 
something  else.  She  held  in  her  hands  some  lacy  stuff 
which  while  she  spoke  she  wrung,  and  went  on  wringing 
as  if  her  hands,  those  strong  little  dark  hands,  had  im- 
pulses of  their  own,  foreign  to  herself.  The  gesture 
fascinated  him  until  he  looked  into  her  face  and  saw 
with  a  vision  renewed  the  parted,  curling  lips  and  the 
eyes  that  were  so  soft  as  they  rested  upon  him  through 
the  hot,  moist  air;  the  curls  that  were  so  thick,  rather 
damp  and  darkened  by  moisture,  tumbled  upon  her 


178     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

brow  and  brilliant  here  and  there  with  redness  where 
touched  them  the  setting  sun  as  it  fell  suavely  through 
the  frosted  glass. 

Life  was  intolerably  beautiful  then  and  flimmering, 
as  if  she  had  occurred  in  a  world  not  made  for  such 
things;  as  if  she  had  escaped  from  those  falsities  with 
which  she  so  well  knew  how  to  make  herself  absurd. 
He  did  not  know  it,  but  for  the  first  time  he  was  seeing 
her  as  she  was  and  at  her  noblest, —  simple,  at  work, 
without  artifice.  He  was  seeing  all  that  was  exquisite 
in  her,  her  humility,  because  stripped  of  gewgaws  of 
which  she  thought  too  much ;  her  shyness,  because  for  a 
moment  alone  with  him ;  her  anxiety  to  please  him,  not 
that  he  might  admire,  for  in  her  innocence  she  thought 
herself  below  admiration,  but  just  to  please  him.  He 
did  not  know  all  this,  but  he  could  feel  it.  So  they 
did  not  say  anything,  either  of  them,  but  as  they  so 
stood,  drew  back  into  themselves,  thrilled  and  yet  afraid 
of  that  third  creature  which  sometimes  rises  between 
woman  and  man  to  bind  them,  that  imponderable,  in- 
visible, incorporeal  spirit  that  is  made  of  two,  and  yet 
of  one  and  of  both,  and  of  another,  of  illusion  passing 
and  yet  real ;  that  is  so  fugitive  that  none  can  seize  it, 
so  powerful  that  it  may  forever  bind ;  so  crafty  that  one 
thus  enmeshed  may  not  escape  until  he  die,  so  weak 
that  a  word  or  a  look  can  slay  it,  so  sweet  that  never 
can  sated  tongue  recoil  therefrom,  so  fierce  that  all 
shrink  away  as  they  draw  closer.  .  .  . 

They  were  silent  and  helpless  as  he  turned  away,  and 
they  were  glad,  though  afraid,  as  they  felt  the  change 
that  had  come.  Both  of  them,  .still  unloving  and  un- 
loved, who  had  lived  all  their  lives  ignorant  of  their 
desire,  were  afraid.  They  were  like  saints  who  have 
prayed  to  be  taken  into  the  bosom  of  the  Lord  through 
the  blessedness  of  death,  and  yet  shrink  away  and  cry 
out  when  they  hear  from  afar  the  steady  beating  of  the 
black  angel's  wing. 


CHAPTEE  THE  THIRD 

THE    DREAM    IN    THE    NIGHT 


HUNCOTE  rose  early.  He  felt  slack,  heavy,  and  he  had 
a  slight,  insistent  headache  which  he  attributed  to  hav- 
ing drunk  and  smoked  too  much  the  night  before. 
Without  intention,  as  if  he  were  running  away,  he  had 
rung  up  Ditton  and  asked  him  to  go  to  the  theatre.  It 
had  seemed  necessary  that  Ditton  should  take  him  to 
the  theatre;  Huncote  had  been  very  urgent  about  it, 
had  swept  away  Ditton's  objection  that  he  was  booked 
by  a  friend,  Captain  Verney,  and  in  the  end  accompa- 
nied Ditton  and  Verney  to  "  The  Glad  Eye."  A  dread- 
ful evening,  with  Ditton  being  funny  and  the  soldier 
demonstrating  at  the  play  how  a  man  can  guffaw  like 
a  coster  and  yet  maintain  absolute  good  form.  Hun- 
cote  hated  the  play;  the  contrast  between  the  memory 
of  Sue,  the  soft  modesty  of  her  eyes,  and  the  brisk  light- 
ness of  luxurious  amours  sickened  him.  In  another 
mood  it  would  have  filled  him  with  contempt  to  see  a 
man  take  up  flying  so  as  to  find  time  to  deceive  his 
wife  with  a  milliner;  and  he  would  have  sneered  when 
various  people  in  flying  kit  hid  themselves  in  various 
parts  of  the  house  so  as  to  shield  their  puny  beastliness. 
He  was  vigorous  that  night,  so  he  hated  it  all.  He  was 
tender,  not  yet  the  piping  Daphnis,  but  already  he  saw 
Chloe, —  for  washing  clothes  was  not  above  Chloe's  dig- 
nity. And  he  was  angry  because  afterwards  he  had  to 
have  supper  at  Romano's  and,  being  weak,  was  dragged 
for  a  while  into  the  Eleur  de  Lis  night-club  where 


180     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

through  smoke  he  had  to  look  upon  an  abominable 
crowd,  fat  Jewish  men  with  diamonds  on  their  little 
fingers  and  pretty  girls  with  eyes  like  enamel.  Next 
to  him  was  a  party  he  hated,  especially  an  American 
girl  who  never  said  anything,  but  replied  to  a  man  who 
looked  like  a  red-nose  comedian  with  "  yeps "  and 
"  nups  "  which  fell  like  the  bits  of  metal  from  an  auto- 
matic stamping  machine;  there  was  a  man  whom  they 
called  "  The  Honourable  John ",  drunker  than  Hun- 
cote  had  ever  seen  anybody,  and  some  fluffies  more  and 
more  attentive  to  him  as  he  grew  more  incapable. 

Why  had  he  done  it  ?  Because  his  feelings  were  con- 
fused, because  he  wanted  to  do  something,  anything,  to 
have  activity  if  he  could  not  have  purpose,  to  dull  him- 
self, to  flee  from  the  picture  that  was  becoming  an 
obsession,  which  he  feared  lest  it  should  become  an 
obsession,  which  perhaps  he  feared  more  lest  it  should 
become  a  reality,  his  life,  and  which  at  the  very  back  of 
his  mind  he  was  thrillingly  beginning  to  convert  into 
a  reality.  That  was  the  night  before,  when  Sue  was 
still  so  near,  and  her  grace  and  sweetness  all  about  him. 
In  the  early  morning  it  was  different;  there  was  no 
night  now  to  englamour  her;  she  was  only  a  little  girl 
of  the  people,  shy,  not  virginally,  but  shy  because  she 
had  no  habit  of  the  world.  He  felt  that  he  had  been 
absurd,  though  he  had  done  nothing,  said  nothing.  He 
had  been  absurd  in  emotion  if  not  in  action,  and  to  a 
conscience  such  as  his  that  was  as  great  an  ignominy. 
He  grew  hot  and  angry.  As  he  leapt  out  of  bed  he  said 
aloud : 

"Mashed!  That's  what  they  call  it.  Completely, 
vulgarly  mashed." 

He  swore  with  disgust.  He  could  not  sit  in  his 
rooms;  everything  angered  him,  his  landlady's  orna- 
ments, notably  the  black  marble  clock  in  the  shape  of  a 
tomb  watched  by  a  shepherdess  of  bronze,  in  long  skirts 
and  high  bodice,  date  circa  1850 ;  the  bath  in  which  he 


THE  DREAM  IN  THE  NIGHT     181 

intimately  knew  they  washed  the  collie  though  the  land- 
lady denied  it.  And  the  breakfast  was  not  ready:  he 
was  twenty  minutes  early  himself  and  flung  himself  into 
an  unreasonable  rage  about  it.  The  landlady  took  this 
with  as  much  equanimity  as  if  it  were  she  who  had  been 
twenty  minutes  late.  She  did  not  care  either  way. 
When  Huncote  realised  this  there  was  another  burst  of 
anger. 

He  could  not  go  straight  to  the  Settlement ;  he  had  to 
work  off  on  himself  his  hatred  of  the  world.  So  he 
walked  very  fast  southwards,  past  King's  Cross.  He 
reached  Park  Crescent  and  the  august  solitudes  of  Port- 
land Place  which,  at  that  early  hour,  was  an  endless 
prospect  of  bent  middle-aged  female  backs.  Step- 
scrubbing,  the  travail  of  luxury.  As  he  passed  he  saw 
the  women's  arms,  large  red  arms,  some  mottled,  some 
dreadfully  long  and  thin,  with  crimson  elbows  and  start- 
ing wrists.  They  all  went  with  the  same  rhythm,  right 
to  left,  left  to  right,  as  if  they  had  been  swaying  and 
scrubbing  since  time  began,  and  would  so  go  on  to  the 
end  of  time,  with  that  swish-swish  of  wet  rag. 

A  new  feeling  formed  in  him:  he  remembered  the 
swish-swish ;  Mrs.  Groby,  comfortable  and  smiling,  came 
up  before  his  eyes.  He  smiled  suddenly,  he  remem- 
bered her  song,  and  as  he  went,  swinging  a  cane,  he 
murmured  to  himself: 

"  Liza's  tootsies,  Liza's  feet  .  .  ." 

One  of  the  scrubbers,  who  was  wringing  out  her  rag, 
said: 

"  What's  the  joke  ?  " 

He  smiled  at  her.  His  mood  had  changed.  He 
grew  aware  of  the  sun  that  fell  pale  and  brilliant  as 
sauterne.  In  Regent  Street  an  excitement  was  upon 
him  and  grew  with  the  crowd.  It  was  not  within  him- 
self, but  part  of  the  world,  and  the  crowd  was  a  charac- 
ter. He  loved  it  because  it  was  the  young  crowd  of 
early  morning.  The  hanging  thought  behind  his  brain 


182     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

rose :  "  Mashed !  Completely  and  vulgarly  mashed !  " 
But  he  was  not  angry,  for  slowly  there  crept  over  him  a 
feeling  he  had  never  known  before :  "  I'm  a  dog !  " 
Young  Huncote,  aged  twenty-four  and  yesterday  so  old, 
was  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  young.  He  tried  to 
tell  himself  it  was  a  vulgar  flirtation,  and  he  did  not 
mind  it  being  vulgar ;  he  liked  it ;  it  was  exciting,  ad- 
venturous, just  because  it  was  new,  just  because  he  had 
never,  like  his  friends,  the  Dittons,  the  Lord  Alastairs, 
painted  the  town  red.  He  wanted  so  to  paint  it  at  half- 
past  nine.  Nothing  told  his  innocence  that  he  was  good 
for  little  more  than  pink.  So  in  his  ignorance  he  was 
happy:  the  workgirls  streamed  past  him,  alone  and 
hurrying,  or  in  couples,  chattering  as  they  went,  or  in 
noisy  groups  that  struggled  over  a  picture-paper  and 
dawdled  before  the  windows  of  Peter  Robinson.  One 
of  the  groups  impeded  him,  and  he  did  not  try  to  force 
his  way  through ;  this  fluttering  femininity,  so  audacious 
and  so  shy,  yet  so  educated  by  London,  stirred  and 
amused  him.  Surprisingly  he  was  talking  to  four  of 
them  while  a  fifth,  an  anxious  little  person  with  glasses, 
tried  to  draw  them  away  lest  they  should  be  late.  A 
big  handsome  girl,  with  hair  like  a  fox's  fur,  picked  him 
as  her  especial  quarry.  She  casually  remarked  that  her 
name  was  "  Molly  ",  and  did  he  like  cinemas  ?  But 
they  were  all  in  a  hurry,  and  he  found  that  only  for  a 
moment  had  he  been  a  "  fellow."  Regent  Street  grew 
clearer  of  shop  girls ;  those  who  were  late  began  to  run 
past  him  and  were  being  replaced  by  a  new  contingent, 
—  the  women  from  the  suburbs,  about  to  gaze  for  hours 
and  buy  for  minutes,  until  much  later  the  rich  would 
come  to  glance  disdainfully  for  a  second  and  pass  on 
untempted. 

"  I'm  a  dog !  "  he  repeated  to  himself.  Then  he  said 
it  again,  and  it  struck  him  that  he  did  so  only  because 
unconvinced.  He  thought  of  those  girls  with  whom  he 
had  exchanged  a  few  words,  of  big  Molly.  How  sharp 


THE  DREAM  IN  THE  NIGHT     183 

they  had  been,  all  of  them,  and  how  unafraid  of  him ! 
How  soon  too,  he  thought,  the  one  who  talked  most  had 
thought  of  something  she  could  get  out  of  him. 

He  turned  back  through  the  mercantile  Great  Port- 
land Street,  and  as  he  retraced  his  steps  his  mood 
changed.  Doggishness  was  not  working.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  compare,  and  the  more  he  thought  of  Molly 
and  her  fellows,  the  more  insistently  was  he  haunted  by 
a  darker,  a  sweeter  shade  who  did  not  wink,  or  ogle, 
or  invite.  He  remembered  her  speech.  Sue  had  never 
said:  "No  fear"  or  "Not  arf  ",  as  they  did  in  St. 
Panwich ;  at  least  not  to  him.  It  moved  him  to  think 
that  perhaps  she  was  different  from  the  others,  still  more 
that  perhaps  she  was  so  only  for  him.  The  nearer  he 
came  to  St.  Panwich,  the  more  did  he  recede  from  his 
old  attitude:  it  was  old  already  after  half  an  hour,  so 
swift  are  the  wings  of  Eros.  No,  his  was  no  common 
little  episode.  Fearfully  he  realised  that  perhaps  it 
was  not  an  episode.  A  new  horror  seized  him  as  he 
saw  himself  grow  more  and  more  deeply  involved,  un- 
able to  rescue  himself  from  her,  more  dangerous  still, 
from  his  own  impulse.  In  his  despair  he  threw  him- 
self into  his  work,  hating  it  because  it  was  not  adequate, 
did  not  so  strain  his  mind  as  to  leave  no  room  for  her. 
All  that  day,  in  a  rage  of  work,  he  did  nearly  everything 
that  he  had  planned  to  do  in  the  week ;  he  made  copies 
of  quite  unnecessary  lists;  seeking  dullness  of  mind  he 
would  have  copied  out  the  post-office  directory.  But  the 
only  result  was  to  make  him  irritable*  Churton  came 
in. 

"  Hallo !  "  he  said  amiably.  "  You  look  pretty  hard 
at  it."  He  took  up  the  draft  of  a  lecture :  The  Settle- 
ment and  Its  Aims.  "  Oh,  I  was  going  to  do  that 
Didn't  you  know  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  Huncote  defiantly. 

Nothing  would  have  happened  if  his  tone  had  been 
different,  but  Churton  was  nettled. 


184     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  If  you  knew  I  was  going  to  do  it,  why  did  you  do 
it?" 

Before  he  could  think  Huncote  lost  his  temper. 

"  Damnation !  "  he  shouted.  "  D'you  think  that  no- 
body here  can  do  anything  but  you  ?  " 

A  flush  rose  on  Churton's  yellow-greenish  cheeks. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  like  that.     After  all  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  after  all,"  Huncote  snarled,  "  say  it :  you're 
boss  here  and  I'm  not ;  is  that  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Chur- 
ton,  who  had  regained  self-control,  "  only  I  wish  .  .  ." 

The  conversation  turned  into  an  interminable  wrangle 
about  minding  one's  own  business  and  ended  in  Hun- 
cote seizing  his  hat  and  leaving  the  Settlement.  A  few 
minutes  later,  in  the  street,  he  tried  to  remember  what 
the  quarrel  was  about.  By  the  time  he  reached  his 
rooms  he  felt  abject,  and  it  relieved  him  only  a  little 
to  write  Churton  a  long  apology.  But,  the  apology 
written,  he  could  think  only  of  his  own  condition :  what 
a  day  this  had  been !  And  how  he  had  behaved !  Low 
adventure  in  Regent  Street  with  not  even  the  excuse  of 
success,  silly  officiousness  ending  in  his  conducting  him- 
self like  a  petulant  child !  What  was  coming  over  him  ? 
He  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands  in  the  horsehair  arm- 
chair, gazing  at  the  black  marble  tomb.  "  What's  the 
matter  with  me  ?  "  he  thought.  He  did  not  know ;  he 
tried  to  think  and  found  he  could  not.  It  was  very  hot ; 
the  room  smelt  dusty,  of  old  curtains,  mangy  carpets; 
from  outside  came  sleepy  air  with  a  rank  flavour  when 
it  blew  from  the  tannery  or  the  brewery,  he  was  not 
sure  which. 

His  excitement  turned  to  weariness,  and  yet  he  knew 
he  could  not  sleep,  at  least  not  there,  in  this  place  that 
felt  like  a  hutch.  He  must  go  out,  but  he  knew  that 
the  London  streets  with  their  hard  pavements  glowing 
in  the  sunset,  the  asphalt,  soft  under  his  feet,  would  not 
help  him.  He  could  not  be  with  so  many  of  his  fellows, 


THE  DREAM  IN  THE  NIGHT     185 

for  they  would  seem  too  gay,  too  confident,  and  it  would 
be  bitter  to  see  them  purposeful  while  he  was  in  tur- 
moil. For  a  moment  he  thought  of  St.  Olaves:  if  his 
mother  had  been  there  alone  to  smile  and  talk  inconse- 
quently  of  socialism  and  the  new  curate  it  would  have 
been  all  right,  but  he  shrank  when  he  thought  of  Els- 
peth,  whose  diamond-cut  mind  would  put  his  own  to 
shame,  and  Flora,  Flora  so  charming  and  yet  so  abom- 
inably like  those  flumes  of  the  morning.  No,  he  must 
be  alone.  He  grew  sure  of  it.  The  thought  of  action 
invigorated  him,  he  jumped  up  and,  without  any  plan, 
running  out  into  the  street,  happened  upon  a  cab  sent 
to  him  by  fate:  nothing  but  fate  would  send  a  cab  to 
St.  Panwich.  It  was  an  old,  old  hansom  with  melan- 
cholic springs  and  a  horse  which  during  the  Boer  War 
had  gone  for  a  soldier;  it  was  stuffy,  and  the  contents 
of  the  cushion  were  at  last  achieving  their  ambition  of 
years,  beginning  to  burst  out.  But  still  it  was  the  car 
of  freedom,  and  when  the  man  lifted  the  flap  Huncote 
said :  "  Paddington  "  as  he  might  have  said  "  Heaven !  " 
to  the  mystic  driver  of  the  chariot  of  Elijah. 

He  had  said  "  Paddington "  because  for  so  many 
years,  when  in  London  and  returning  to  Oxford,  he  had 
said  "  Paddington."  It  seemed  quite  natural  to  say 
"  Oxford  "  at  the  booking-office,  quite  natural  to  catch 
the  7.30  which  he  had  so  often  caught  before.  But  he 
was  not  asking  Oxford  to  take  him  to  her  dry,  even- 
beating  heart  and  talk  to  him  of  hexameters;  he  was 
asking  of  her  her  Isian  peace  and  the  darkness  that 
should  fall  about  her  spires. 

Without  intent  he  shrank  from  his  desire ;  he  stopped 
but  a  moment  at  the  chemist's  opposite  the  station  to 
buy  a  tooth-brush,  this  material  necessity  having  oc- 
curred to  him.  And  then  he  walked  away  very  quickly, 
afraid  that  some  don  of  Gabriel  might  meet  him  and 
force  him  into  reminiscences  of  degrees,  of  rags,  and 
tea  parties,  and  binges,  Oxford  tittle-tattle.  He  turned 


186     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

behind  the  station,  crossed  the  Cherwell  like  a  hiding 
malefactor,  and  turned  along  the  high  road.  He 
vaguely  felt  that  he  must  escape  from  his  mind  by 
wearying  his  body;  the  ten-mile  walk  to  Shilling-ford 
would  help  him.  But  he  did  not  get  so  far;  as  behind 
him  the  thickness  of  the  old  town  turned  into  villas  and, 
these  scattering,  into  fields,  he  came  to  the  silence  he 
was  seeking;  his  pace  slackened.  He  went  through 
Sandford  where  there  were  no  lights,  went  on  along  the 
road  where  followed  him  the  scent  of  sweetbriar.  He 
stopped  and  turned  up  a  path  that  ran  dark  across  a 
meadow,  until  very  near  him  he  could  hear  the  soft 
lapping  of  the  Thames.  He  did  not  want  to  see  the 
river  just  then,  but  to  listen  to  the  mild  swell  of  its 
low  summer  waters.  Its  voice  made  the  depth,  while 
the  sharp,  monotonous  cry  of  the  grasshoppers  and  the 
faint  swish  of  the  grass  in  the  night  winds  made  the 
lightness.  A  crescent  of  pale-green  moon  hung  in  a 
sky  almost  as  pale,  where  on  the  leisurely  wind  floated 
lazily  eternal  clouds.  He  heard  only  the  sounds  of 
nature  and,  far  from  man,  the  passions  of  man  fell  from 
him  as  an  over-heavy  coat  from  weary  shoulders.  He 
was  not  thinking  of  Sue  precisely,  or  of  anything  pre- 
cisely; every  pore  of  his  skin  answered  the  cool  night 
in  which  yet  there  was  warmth ;  he  was  like  an  animal 
that  has  been  fed  and  desires  no  more.  An  impulse 
stirred  him,  and  he  went  farther  across  the  meadow 
until  the  path  disappeared,  and  about  his  feet  there 
clung,  like  hands,  the  lush  grass  near  the  river  side. 
For  a  long  time  he  watched  the  slow,  black  passing  of  the 
waters;  he  thought  of  them  as  "symbolic  of  eternity  and 
did  not  smile  at  his  own  platitude.  For  this  was  not  a 
time  to  cavil  at  platitudes  when  the  moon  melted  her 
pearl  in  the  opal  cup  of  the  night. 

Then,  from  far  away,  came  floating  towards  him  the 
voice  of  a  woman  faintly  singing.  It  was  lazy  and 
melancholic.  He  heard  the  sound  of  sculls,  and  the 


THE  DREAM  IN  THE  NIGHT     187 

singing  grew  louder.  In  the  darkness  he  saw  the  blot 
of  a  greater  darkness  upon  the  water  and,  watching,  his 
mind  so  empty  that  anything  could  occupy  it,  he  saw  it 
materialise,  become  a  skiff  which  a  man  was  pulling. 
By  the  light  of  a  Chinese  lantern  in  the  bows  he  could 
see  a  girl,  sitting  among  cushions,  scarlet  cushions  that 
in  the  yellow  light  of  the  lantern  were  as  the  flesh  of 
an  apricot.  They  could  not  see  him,  for  they  were 
blinded  by  their  own  light,  and  for  a  moment  Huncote 
looked  upon  them,  young,  loving,  alone  on  earth  because 
they  thought  themselves  alone.  Mechanically  he  ob- 
served the  rhythm  of  the  man's  strokes,  the  far-thrown 
look  in  the  girl's  eyes  as  she  stared  over  her  lover's  head 
into  the  night  that  seemed  so  black  over  the  lantern. 
Her  voice  was  thin  but  tender  as  she  sang : 

"Will  the  ro-ses  bloom  in  Heaven, 
Are  there  an-y  gardens  there? 
An-y  vi-o-lets  and  clover, 
Way  up  with  the  an-gels  fair? 

"  Will  the  branches  fill  with  blossoms, 
And  in  win-ter  fill  with  snow? 
Will  the  ro-ses  bloom  in  Heaven? 
Tell  me,  Mamma,  ere  I  go." 

He  did  not  trouble  to  understand  or  to  criticise,  to 
tell  himself  that  these  were  townees,  that  the  girl  was 
not  pretty,  that  the  song  was  sentimental  wash,  for  as 
they  passed  him  on  their  dream-boat,  their  little  world 
adrift  and  so  full,  an  intolerable  ache  formed  in  his 
heart;  it  grew  as,  the  boat  drawing  away,  the  singing 
seemed  fainter.  They  were  leaving  him,  they  and  their 
love-filled  world,  to  his  loneliness,  his  undefined  de- 
sire. 

She  was  still  singing,  but  he  could  not  catch  the  words 
so  well ;  every  stroke  made  them  fainter,  and  at  last  he 
guessed  rather  than  heard  the  chorus  that  came  from 
afar,  like  an  old  sweet  thought : 


188     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Will  the  ro-ses  bloom  in  Heaven, 
Are  there  an-y  gardens  there? 
An-y  vi-o-lets  and  .  .  ." 

He  could  hear  no  more,  the  voice  had  faded  away;  he 
stood  in  the  silence  upon  the  bank,  the  night  colder 
about  him  and  he  so  lonely. 

Much  later  in  the  night  at  Shillingford,  where  he  had 
gone  into  the  first  inn  he  saw,  he  woke  up.  He  woke  up 
in  possession  of  all  his  faculties,  as  if  he  had  been 
startled.  It  was  as  if  somebody  had  called  to  him,  and 
he  strained  his  ears  to  see  if  —  he  drew  back  from  his 
own  fantasy.  He  was  afraid  a  little  and  yet  eager  as 
a  virgin  pursued.  He  sat  up.  It  was  cold  in  his  room 
with  the  night  half  spent;  the  window  with  its  white 
blind  was  opaline  and  shadowy  as  a  window's  ghost.  A 
treacherous  light  fell  upon  the  blind  as  if  dawn  were 
near;  he  heard  sounds,  cattle  lowing  far  away;  a  cock 
crowed,  and  he  shrank  as  he  thought  of  the  day,  of  the 
problem  that  light  must  bring.  "  It  is  easy  enough," 
he  thought,  "  when  it  is  all  unreal."  The  cock  crowed 
again,  and  Huncote  feared  the  day.  For  some  moments 
he  remained  like  this,  sitting  up  in  the  tumbled  bed, 
his  hands  clenched  upon  the  bed-clothes,  waiting  for  the 
sun ;  but  his  eyes  straining  to  the  window  saw  no  greater 
light.  Indeed  it  faded,  and  the  cock  crowed  no  more: 
false  dawn  and  its  chilliness  was  on  him.  Suddenly  he 
flung  himself  down  into  the  bed,  drawing  the  bed-clothes 
over  his  head,  hoping  in  the  warm  darkness  to  find 
sleep.  But  it  was  thought  he  found,  abominable,  clear, 
logical  thought.  He  struggled,  but  it  was  no  use ;  in  the 
hot  darkness  of  the  bed  the  picture  of  Sue  formed  before 
his  eyes,  fearful  and  lovely.  An  obscure  instinct  in 
him  suggested  he  should  pray  to  be  delivered  from 
temptation,  but  he  was  too  proud  to  pray.  He  thought : 
"  No,  I  have  never  worshipped  God  when  all  was  well ; 
I'll  not  appeal  to  Him  now."  He  would  fight  the  temp- 
tation alone  and  bear  the  blame  if  he  failed. 


THE  DREAM  IN  THE  NIGHT     189 

A  question  formed :  "  The  blame  ?  Why  the 
blame  ?  "  Sue's  dark  head  grew  so  actual  to  him  that 
he  was  afraid.  But  more  than  afraid,  he  was  delighted ; 
the  dark  eyes  seemed  full  of  wonder,  and  the  red,  curl- 
ing lips  parted  in  the  smile  of  appeal,  rather  than  in- 
citement. She  was  irresistible  and  charming. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  Mrs.  Back.  He  had  been 
so  stirred  that  he  forgot  her  and  her  soldier  son.  The 
picture  lay  at  his  rooms  in  Clare  Street.  Such  was  the 
power  of  Sin.  He  was  shocked.  Then  he  thought: 
"After  aU,  why  not?  What  is  class?  Artificial!" 
His  logic  pulled  him  up.  "  No,  not  artificial,  but  the 
class  that  is  at  the  top  may  not  be  the  upper  class ;  all 
those  who  are  at  the  bottom  may  not  be  of  the  lower 
class."  A  powerful  catch-phrase  seized  him :  "  The 
nobility  of  labour."  And  at  once  Sue's  personal  charm 
turned  into  a  sociological  charm;  she  was  no  longer 
the  one  who  should  be  his  beloved,  but  the  one  who  em- 
bodied all  that  was  fine  in  her  type.  Coarse  perhaps, 
coarse  certainly,  uneducated,  common, —  but  not  vul- 
gar, not  cruel,  not  insensitive  like  so  many  of  her  class 
—  and  of  his  own.  For  a  long  time  he  thought  of  his 
own  class.  He  saw  it  as  mercenary  often,  snobbish  gen- 
erally, idle  always.  He  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow 
and  soon  was  flattering  his  vanity,  telling  himself  that 
he  would  do  a  fine  thing,  a  chivalrous  thing,  and  then 
he  bribed  his  desire  with  the  matchlessness  of  Sue.  He 
recreated  her  in  his  mind,  he  understood  that  to  love  is 
to  set  out  on  exploration. 

The  picture  of  Sue  still  smiled,  glad  and  resigned,  as 
if  saying:  "  Do  with  me  what  you  will."  He  seized 
the  offering;  he  had  a  vision  of  a  Sue  with  all  her 
"  h's ",  of  a  Sue  who  knew  the  difference  between 
"  what  "  and  "  whom."  He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  Sue 
with  only  eight  roses  in  her  hat,  then  two  or  three,  then 
perhaps, —  who  could  tell, —  just  a  black  aigrette. 
Literature.  ...  He  thought  of  Sue  giving  up  the  penny 


190     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

novelette  and,  via  Dickens,  proceeding  to  George  Mere- 
dith. It  was  Sue,  and  all  Sue,  only  Sue  now,  and  the 
fine  type  forgot ;  he  thought  of  her,  silent  and  dark,  in 
an  evening  frock  he  contrived  for  her,  cream  with 
touches  of  orange  to  enhance  her  dusky  beauty:  he  was 
discovering  woman  in  his  lover.  The  night  was  pass- 
ing and  the  dawn  on  the  wing;  still  he  thought  of  her 
and  what  he  could  make  of  her.  God-like  he  conde- 
scended, thought  to  recreate  her  in  his  own  image. 
Only  at  last,  as  Aurora  laid  upon  the  window  a  smiling 
cheek,  he  called  himself  a  prig  and  was  ashamed. 

"  No"  he  said,  "  it  mustn't  be  like  that,  it  must  be 
she  and  I,  not  I  and  I  in  female  form ;  it  must  be  just 
she  as  she  was  yesterday,  bearing  youth  like  a  torch." 

He  remembered  her  as  she  stood  before  him,  her  long 
pale  arms,  her  acquiescent  eyes.  A  humorous  idea 
struck  him.  "  Well,  we'll  have  to  have  a  washhouse 
too,  and  she  can  rehearse  the  old  part."  He  laughed, 
and  as  he  so  did  the  dream-head  laughed  too ;  it  was  as  if 
the  curling  lips  said :  "  Laugh,  master,  if  you  like ;  I 
don't  understand  why,  but  if  you  laugh  I  am  content." 


THE    WONDEBPOOLS 


"  LOST  your  tongue,  have  you  ?  "  asked  Sue. 

Bert  did  not  reply.  Sue  felt  displeased  with  herself. 
She  knew  she  was  handling  him  in  the  wrong  way,  but 
she  could  not  help  it,  possibly  because  some  subtle  an- 
tagonism to  Bert  had  by  anticipation  crept  into  her. 
She  managed  not  to  add :  "  You  dummy !  "  They 
sat  on  the  tram  which  this  Saturday  afternoon  was  tak- 
ing them  towards  Highgate.  It  was  warm,  and  the 
scented  world  was  pleasant.  Sue  did  not  feel  angry 
really,  only  huffy ;  after  all  she  had  not  done  anything. 
She  grew  remorseful.  As  they  passed  over  the  High- 
gate  Koad  bridge,  she  said :  "  Feels  rather  rocky, 
doesn't  it  ?  "  Still  Bert  said  nothing,  and  Sue  felt  very 
offended ;  she  was  trying  hard  to  please  him,  and  conver- 
sation about  bridges,  which  led  to  railways  and  other 
machinery,  always  pleased  him.  But  as  that  day  it  did 
not,  Sue  switched  from  propitiation  to  proper  pride  and, 
when  they  got  off  near  Highgate  Fields,  was  very  much 
the  lady.  For  a  time  they  walked  side  by  side  on  the 
hard,  caked  turf.  Bert  said,  almost  condescendingly: 
"  Pretty  hot,  isn't  it  ?  We  need  some  rain." 

"  Wouldn't  do  any  harm,"  said  Sue,  eagerly  clutching 
at  the  loverlike  speech. 

"  It'd  keep  the  flies  down  anyhow,"  Bert  grumbled 
as  he  flicked  a  tormentor  from  his  nose.  And  for  the 
moment  that  was  all. 

They  went  on  side  by  side,  or  rather  not  quite  side 


192     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

by  side  but  Bert  a  little  in  front,  not  much,  five  or  six 
inches  perhaps,  in  virtue  of  their  class  instinct  which, 
better  than  that  of  Mayfair,  remembers  the  Indian 
brave  and  his  squaw.  Silently  still  they  went  up  Par- 
liament Hill ;  it  was  a  long  climb  and  a  hot  one.  When 
they  got  to  the  top  Bert  mopped  his  head,  and  Sue  won- 
dered what  he  would  say,  for  she  knew  her  quasi-fiance, 
knew  him  for  talkative  and  had  always  found  that  a 
long  silence  was  with  him  as  inevitably  the  prelude  to  a 
row  as  the  lull  is  that  to  a  storm.  And  yet  her  waiting 
was  not  all  anxious ;  she  found  herself  strangely  absent- 
minded  that  day,  and  she  looked  out  over  Highgate 
Ponds,  now  corrugated  by  a  slight  breeze  and  glistening 
dully  like  molten  lead,  at  the  little  groups  that  were 
families,  at  the  couples  pretending  that  the  tree  hid 
them,  at  the  field  below,  near  the  band  stand,  where  a 
great  many  teams  of  assorted  ages  played  cricket.  She 
did  not  think  precisely,  but  something  at  the  back  of  her 
mind,  unmingled  with  the  grass  and  the  sun,  made  her 
happy  and  unafraid.  Yet  she  was  annoyed  and  rather 
insulted:  the  complex  product  of  Saturday  afternoon 
and  of  parallel  passions.  Suddenly  Bert  spoke  and  it 
was  jarring. 

"  Been  getting  yourself  talked  about,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Sue. 

"  What  I  say,"  Bert  replied  profoundly. 

"  Wish  you'd  say  it  a  bit  plainer." 

"  Been  getting  yourself  talked  about,  haven't  you  ? " 
said  Bert,  more  cheerfully  now,  for  he  knew  he  was 
being  irritating,  and  that  soothed  him. 

She  made  a  movement  which  would  have  been  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders  if  she  had  been  French,  and  a  toss  of 
the  head  if  she  had  been  born  in  1820.  It  did  not  re- 
lieve her  much,  and  she  had  to  be  content  with  assum- 
ing an  air  of  mingled  aloofness  and  martyrdom.  She 
knew  the  power  of  that  air  and  indeed  in  a  few  seconds 
Bert,  having  glanced  at  her  sideways,  went  on : 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  193 

"  Well,  what  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself  ?  " 

"  You  didn't  ask  a  question,  Bert,"  said  Sue  politely. 

Bert  felt  very  aggressive.  "  All  right,  I'll  ask  you  a 
question :  Is  it  true  that  swell,  Huncote,  is  after  you  ? 
It's  all  over  the  place." 

"  Somebody's  been  tellin'  you  the  tale,  Bert,"  said 
Sue.  But  her  heart  seemed  to  have  grown  in  that  mo- 
ment rather  too  large  for  her  chest. 

"  I'm  not  asking  you  whether  somebody's  been  tellin' 
me  the  tale,"  Bert  snarled.  "  I'm  askin'  you  a  plain 
question.  They  say  he  came  in  to  see  you  the  other  day. 
That  true?" 

Sue  was  frightened:  what  were  they  saying?  Per- 
haps they  were  saying  that  he  had  been  there  when  her 
mother  was  not  in,  and  she  had  the  highest  regard  for 
her  reputation.  She  hurried  to  explain. 

"  It  was  only  about  the  picture  for  Mrs.  Back.  He 
never  had  come  round  before.  It  was  only  .  .  ." 

Her  humility  made  Bert  as  angry  as  had  her  defi- 
ance. He  wanted  a  quarrel,  and  he  was  not  going  to 
be  done  out  of  it. 

"  That's  a  fine  story  to  tell  me,"  he  went  on  bitterly. 
"  'Spose  he  was  looking  for  Mrs.  Back  in  the  wash- 
house,  was  he?"  She  said  nothing;  she  had  not  felt 
all  that  Huncote  felt  that  afternoon.  But  still  it  was 
an  agitating  memory.  "  Think  nobody  saw  you  ? " 
said  Bert. 

"Well,  they  didn't  see  anything,  did  they?"  Sue 
replied. 

"  Oh,  oh,"  said  Bert,  with  an  air  half  of  mischief, 
half  of  reproach,  "  so  there  was  something  to  see,  was 
there  ?  You've  given  the  game  away." 

"  There's  no  game  to  give  away." 

"  Yes,  there  is ;  you  said  it." 

"  No,  there  isn't." 

"Call  me  a  liar?" 

"  Anything  to  oblige." 


194    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Thanks,  I  don't  want  no  favours." 

This  method  of  conversation  which  practice  in  Lon- 
don streets  had  brought  to  perfection  might  have  ruled 
for  a  long  time,  but  Sue  relapsed  into  sulky  silence 
while  Bert  began  again. 

"  I'm  surprised  at  you,"  he  said,  "  making  yourself 
cheap  like  that,  and  with  a  swell.  A  swell !  "  he  re- 
peated, with  increasing  bitterness.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
talk  about  myself  or  where  I  come  in,  you  know  what  I 
mean  .  .  ."  He  stopped,  afraid  from  judicial  to  grow 
emotional,  and  to  relieve  the  tension  quickly  fastened 
on  class  hatred.  "  A  swell !  A  University  snob ! 
'Spose  he's  turned  your  head  for  you.  What  d'you 
think  you're  up  to  ?  Going  to  be  a  blooming  duchess  ?  " 
He  grew  angrier.  "  A  man  who's  never  done  a  stroke 
of  work  for  his  living,  one  of  those  who  prey  upon  the 
people."  His  wrong  grew  sociological.  "  It's  to  keep 
his  sort  that  chaps  like  me  got  to  work  day  and  night, 
and  having  them  come  it  over  us  as  a  reward.  They 
make  me  sick." 

"  You're  jealous,"  said  Sue.  She  had  thought  that 
out;  she  knew,  perfidious  one,  that  jealous  men  hate  to 
be  thought  jealous. 

"  Jealous !  "  Bert  repeated  scornfully.  "  Tell  me 
what  I've  got  to  be  jealous  about.  I'm  a  workingman, 
I  am,  not  a  Piccadilly  Johnny.  You  just  watch  him  a 
bit,  and  you'll  find  your  masher  hanging  about  the 
Gaiety  stage  door,  looking  for  another  softy  like  you. 
Those  people,  they  live  on  us  like  —  like  hyenas  on 
dead  bodies."  He  paused,  feeling  that  the  simile  did 
not  express  what  he  meant.  "  What  do  we  want  peo- 
ple like  him  bossing  us  for  ?  We  know  what  we've  got 
to  do.  That  sort  is  just  an  accident ;  it's  got  hold  of  a 
little  bit  of  money,  and  it  sits  on  it  because  my  sort's 
fool  enough  to  let  it  keep  it,  and  then  it  blackmails  us 
to  let  us  have  it  back.  Us!"  he  shouted,  waving  an 
angry  fist  towards  Highgate  Ponds.  "Who  made  the 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  105 

money ! "  With  immense  feeling,  he  added :  "  It 
makes  me  sick." 

His  anger  moved  Sue,  and  she  tried  to  he  conciliatory. 

"  Oh,  Bert,"  she  said,  "  it's  always  heen  like  that. 
There  have  always  been  masters,  haven't  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  hut  there  won't  be  long." 

"  You  shouldn't  talk  like  that,  Bert,"  Sue  protested. 
"  What  does  it  matter  if  some  of  us  have  to  serve  ? " 
She  struggled  with  a  memory  of  biblical  phrases. 
"  Serving  in  heaven,"  she  said,  "  I  forget  the  rest." 

Bert  laughed  a  short,  dry  laugh. 

"  We'll  see  about  serving  when  we  get  the  bit  of 
heaven.  Haven't  seen  any  messing  about  down  our 
way.  P'rhaps  I  wouldn't  mind  serving  in  what  you 
call  heaven,  but  I'm  not  going  to  have  the  angels  treat 
me  like  a  footman.  Heaven !  Wish  you'd  give  heaven 
a  rest.  Heaven's  only  a  parson's  dodge." 

"  Bert,"  said  Sue  meaningly,  "  you  know  I  don't  like 
it  when  you  talk  like  that." 

But  Bert  had  lost  his  head  and  his  prudence;  he 
faced  Sue  and,  unmoved  by  the  rose  which  warmth  had 
brought  into  her  cheek's  pale  dusk,  he  addressed  her 
like  a  public  meeting. 

"  Won't  people  ever  understand  the  mechanism  of 
production?  Won't  they  ever  see  that  this  accumula- 
tion of  capital  in  a  few  hands  has  given  the  power  of 
blackmail  to  those  who  are  the  least  fit  ?  You  tell  us," 
he  went  on,  addressing  Sue  who  had  told  him  nothing, 
"  that  we're  setting  class  against  class.  Well,  it's  time 
that  the  lower  class,  as  you  like  to  call  it,  should  be  set 
against  the  upper  class  which  for  so  many  thousands  of 
years  has  been  —  sitting  on  its  head.  They  talk  of  class 
hatred  and  class  war;  why,  we've  had  class  hatred  and 
class  war  since  the  world  began ;  only  it  was  those  at  the 
top  that  were  hating  those  at  the  bottom  and  making 
war  on  'em.  Times  are  changing,  and  time  will  change 
more;  the  world  is  being  born  again,"  he  shouted. 


196     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  They  talk  of  social  reform,"  he  went  on  bitterly. 
"  Social  deform,  I  call  it ;  making  society  worse  by  giv- 
ing the  poor  a  sleeping  draught.  Take  my  word  for 
it,"  he  added  earnestly,  gripping  Sue  by  the  wrist,  "  the 
class  war  will  put  all  that  right.  The  class  war, — 
d'you  realise  what  the  class  war  means  ?  Well,  I'll  tell 
you." 

"  Ouch,  you're  hurting,"  said  Sue,  and  wriggled  her 
wrist  free. 

He  did  not  notice.  He  went  on  talking  and  little 
by  little  slid  from  the  general  into  the  particular: 
didn't  she  understand  that  the  game  that  snob  was 
playing  with  her  was  part  of  the  tyranny  of  class  ? 
That  all  his  swanky  talk  he  owed  to  the  education  he 
had  stolen  from  the  people? 

She  said  nothing ;  she  was  angry,  and  she  was  bored ; 
he  went  on  arguing  and  arguing,  never  realising  that 
here  they  were  alone  on  Parliament  Hill,  bathed  in  the 
sunshine  and  in  the  scent  of  the  warm  turf,  that  all  he 
had  to  do  was  for  a  moment  to  forget  his  general  ideas, 
to  put  both  arms  round  her  shoulders  and  kiss  her  once 
or  twice,  against  her  will  perhaps,  until  she  was  en- 
trapped and  captured,  willingly  resurrendered. 

But  Bert  was  straight  and  innocent,  and  this  served 
him  as  straightness  and  innocence  do  serve  a  man.  He 
went  on  attacking  Huncote. 

"  Now,  then,"  he  said,  "  out  with  it,  is  it  me  or  is 
it  him?" 

Sue  evaded  the  question. 

"  Haven't  got  to  choose,  have  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  have,  can't  have  us  both." 

"  Don't  want  neither  of  you." 

"  What  d'you  come  out  with  me  for  if  you  don't 
want  me  ? " 

"  I  did  want  to  come  out  with  you,"  said  Sue,  sud- 
denly anxious  to  placate  him. 

"  Oh,  thought  you  didn't  want  me ;  call  that  logic  ? " 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  197 

Sue  looked  at  him  rather  puzzled;  never  before  had 
she  thought  of  logic,  and  even  then  his  remark  did  not 
impress  her  much.  So  Bert  shifted  and  attacked 
Huncote  again. 

"  Don't  congratulate  you  on  your  new  fancy,"  he 
went  on.  "  Narrow-chested,  watery-eyed,  knock- 
kneed  sort  of  chap." 

"  He's  not  knock-kneed,"  said  Sue,  for  the  first  time 
referring  to  Huncote  directly. 

"  Yes,  he  is,  and  he  looks  like  a  parson ;  parsons  al- 
ways were  in  your  line,  Sue." 

The  girl  stamped. 

"How  dare  you  talk  like  that;  he  hasn't  done  you 
any  harm." 

"  Perhaps  he  hasn't,"  said  Bert,  after  a  pause. 
"  Doesn't  look  as  if  I'd  got  much  to  lose.  You  can 
have  him ;  stick  to  your  pinky-gills ;  take  him  along  to 
Madame  Tussaud's  to  the  other  dummies." 

"  I'd  rather  talk  to  a  dummy  than  talk  to  you,  if 
you  go  on  like  that,"  said  Sue.  "  Might  as  well  chuck 
it  now,  Bert.  Looks  as  if  we  weren't  getting  on  very 
well  to-day."  She  made  as  if  to  go.  "  So  long !  " 

Bert  detained  her;  suddenly  he  grew  more  intent. 

"  Tell  you  what,"  he  said,  "  if  I  catch  him  monkey- 
ing round  you  I'll  knock  his  head  off." 

"  Oh,  you  will,  will  you  ?  "  said  Sue  defiantly. 

"  Yes,  and  knock  yours  off  too." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Bert  clenched  and 
raised  his  fist  a  little.  Then  he  felt  ashamed  and  let 
it  fall.  Had  he  but  known  it,  in  that  minute  she 
would  have  been  his  if  he  had  not  let  his  fist  fall,  but 
given  her  a  sore  lip  and  then  kissed  away  her  tears. 
He  did  nothing,  and  she,  insulted  by  the  threat,  yet 
despising  him  because  he  did  not  carry  it  out,  drew 
back,  was  defiant,  airy. 

"  Ta-ta,  be  good,"  she  said,  and  turned.  Long  after 
her  light  figure  had  disappeared  beyond  the  Ponds  he 


198     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

watched  her.  At  first  he  was  all  anger,  but  an  in- 
tolerable sense  of  loss  seized  him.  She  was  gone,  and 
perhaps  with  her  the  golden  future,  the  two  rooms  in 
the  Dwellings,  Sunday,  the  clean  collar,  Sue  listening 
to  his  political  speeches  with  his  sons,  Carl  Marx  Cald- 
well,  Holyoake  Caldwell,  and  their  little  sister,  Marie 
Bashkirtsev  Caldwell.  Everything  was  sliding;  Sue 
gone,  the  world  was  chaos.  He  thought :  "  It's  enough 
to  make  one  an  anarchist."  Miserably  he  resolved  to 
read  up  some  Kropotkin. 


She  went  down  the  slope  with  her  head  up.  She 
knew  that  she  was  holding  it  up,  so  she  held  it  a  little 
higher.  She  looked  proud  and  fine,  with  her  full 
mouth  compressed  and  mutinous,  her  heavy  eyebrows 
that  tried  to  meet  in  a  frown.  At  the  bottom  she 
paused,  for  here  was  the  railway  and  somehow,  per- 
haps because  it  was  so  hot,  so  fine  and  Saturday,  she 
did  not  want  to  go  home.  She  turned  back  and  slowly 
walked  towards  Hampstead,  escorted  by  thoughts 
which  troubled  her  because  she  understood  them  so  ill. 
This  was  not  wonderful,  for  those  thoughts  made  a 
strange  company.  She  formulated  one  of  them. 
"  Given  me  the  chuck,"  she  murmured.  "  More  or 
less." 

She  squared  her  broad  shoulders  and  thought: 
"  Who  cares  ? "  But  at  once  Sue  knew  that  she  did 
care.  She  had  lost  Bert;  well,  more  or  less.  One 
never  did  appreciate  people  until  they  were  gone. 
"  Not  lost  but  gone  before,"  she  thought,  with  bewilder- 
ing irrelevancy  and  immense  satisfaction.  Then  re- 
turned to  her  preoccupation.  Yes,  she  had  sort  of  lost 
Bert,  but  once  more,  as  she  thought,  "  Who  cares  ? " 
the  image  of  Bert  became  more  insistent ;  one  could 
overlook  a  human  being  but  not  the  ghost  of  a  glamor- 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  199 

ous  past.  She  remembered  things,  little  things,  the 
day  when,  between  an  exposition  of  the  errors  of  the 
anarchist,  Kropotkin,  and  an  eruptive  allusion  to  the 
record  speed  of  steam  boats,  he  had  confessed  his  love 
for  her. 

"  Funny,"  thought  Sue,  "  I  remember  where  he  said 
that;  behind  the  gasometer,  it  was,  up  Crapp's  Lane." 
She  sighed.  It  had  not  been  a  bit  like  the  picture 
postcards  with  lovers  at  a  stile.  Still,  it  had  been 
good.  She  sighed  again  and  looked  sentimentally  at 
the  ring  which  was  not  exactly  an  engagement  ring  and 
which,  therefore,  she  wore  on  her  second  finger.  Gar- 
net and  opal:  they  always  say  that  opals  are  unlucky. 
She  sighed ;  fate  was  cruel. 

Her  meditations  were  interrupted,  for  she  became 
aware  of  a  presence.  She  had  passed  a  young  man 
who  looked  at  her.  That  did  not  matter;  they  often 
did.  She  heard  his  footfall  behind  her,  and  still  she 
thought;  he  must  have  passed  her,  for  she  had  been 
conscious  of  a  peering  into  her  face.  The  young  man 
walked  more  slowly  now,  and  she  rather  liked  the  look 
of  him,  his  straw  hat  with  the  red  and  purple  ribbon, 
and  his  brilliant  orange  boots.  But  the  young  man 
walked  more  slowly  so  that  Sue  might  catch  him  up. 
Bruised  heart  or  not,  Sue  had  her  principles;  just  as 
he  was  about  to  speak  to  her  and  raised  his  hand  to  the 
impressive  hat,  she  turned  at  right  angles  and  away, 
leaving  him  conscious  that  this  was  no  go. 

He  might  have  pursued  her;  he  would  hardly  have 
been  noticed.  She  had  other  preoccupations  that  after- 
noon. The  emotional  moment  was  past,  and  she 
slowly  scrambled  up  the  slopes  of  the  Vale  of  Health 
towards  the  Spaniards  Eoad  that  held  an  endless  pro- 
cession of  boys  and  girls,  and  motorcars  that  hooted 
towards  the  north ;  her  sentimentality  was  giving  way 
to  anger.  "  The  chuck !  Actually  had  the  sauce  to 
give  her  the  chuck !  "  It  seemed  incredible.  (He  had 


200    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

not  given  her  the  "  chuck  ",  but  Sue  chose  to  be  injured 
and  to  think  so.)  As  she  walked  on  moodily  she  real- 
ised that  it  was  not  Bert's  place  to  give  her  the  chuck; 
if  she  chose  to  do  so  that  was  quite  another  thing. 
And  what  was  the  row  about  after  all?  She  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  look  into  the  pale  sky  that  hangs  over 
West  Heath,  so  deep  that  one  is  sure  the  sea  lies  behind 
those  hollows,  and  mutely  asked  the  sky  what  she  had 
done.  "  Mr.  Huncote,"  she  thought,  "  well,  what 
about  him  ? "  Then  more  aggressively :  "  Well, 
what  about  him  ?  "  She  had  done  nothing,  it  was  not 
her  fault.  Her  indignation  melted  into  interest.  Bert 
had  no  business  to  speak  about  him  like  that.  Wasn't 
stuck  on  him,  of  course,  still  .  .  .  She  ceased  to  think 
of  Bert  and  Huncote;  began  to  think  of  Huncote. 
Rather  dreamily  she  evoked  the  young  man:  she  liked 
the  picture,  the  tallness,  the  slenderness,  the  serious 
eyes,  the  air  of  hesitation  and  delicacy.  It  was  all 
different  from,  from  —  well,  from  other  men.  For 
some  time  Sue  struggled  to  find  a  word;  the  word  was 
"  breeding  ",  but  she  could  not  find  it  and  so,  as  a  sub- 
stitute, little  by  little  she  formed  a  companion  picture, 
that  of  the  hero  of  a  novelette,  called  Sir  Lucius.  Sir 
Lucius  proved  an  indirect  way  of  getting  at  Huncote. 
She  remembered  Sir  Lucius  and  how  he  took  his 
cousin's  guilt  when  the  latter  stole  the  will  which 
should  have  made  Sir  Lucius  heir  to  the  estate.  She 
wasted  a  tear  on  the  heroine,  kept  by  force  in  a  moated 
grange  for  seven  years,  who  came  out,  fortunately  more 
beautiful  than  ever,  to  marry  Sir  Lucius.  Her  eyes 
grew  misty:  Sir  Lucius,  wet  and  starving  on  Dart- 
moor .  .  . 

Yes,  he  was  like  Sir  Lucius,  daring-like.  Pity  his 
name  was  not  Sir  Lucius.  She  wondered  for  some 
time  what  his  name  was  as  she  only  knew  him  as  "  R." 
Richard,  of  course,  or  Robert.  For  a  moment  she 
dwelt  on  a  vague  vision  of  somebody  whom  she  could 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  201 

call  "Bob"  or  "Dick."  Then  she  scolded  herself 
without  being  quite  clear  about  it,  and  summed  up  the 
impossibility  of  the  whole  thing:  "He's  a  toff!" 

A  little  later,  as  she  tried  to  assuage  her  woe  with 
threepenn'orth  of  picture  palace  in  Heath  Street,  she 
was  still  reflecting  on  the  queer  complex  who  was  now 
becoming  more  or  less  "  Sir  E,"  But  a  bitterness  ran 
through  the  vision.  "  He's  a  toff,"  she  thought  again. 
She  sighed  and  meditatively  sucked  a  peppermint. 

Ill 

It  was  late  in  the  evening.  Mr.  Groby  was  still  at 
the  St.  Panwich  Arms,  waiting  for  the  Sabbath.  Sue 
puzzled  her  mother  that  evening,  for  on  Saturday 
nights  it  was  her  habit  to  go  out  either  with  Bert  or 
with  Ada  Nuttall.  She  stayed  at  home,  "  quiet  as  a 
mouse,"  Mrs.  Groby  thought.  There  was  a  lengthy 
search  among  the  novelettes  of  which  several  scores 
littered  corners  in  Sue's  bedroom.  Then  Mrs.  Groby 
went  to  sleep  in  the  armchair  in  her  favourite  attitude, 
hands  crossed  on  her  belt.  When  she  woke  up,  blink- 
ing, she  saw  only  the  profile  of  her  daughter,  nearly 
black  as  she  bent  under  the  gas. 

"Wot  yer  readin' ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Groby  dreamily. 

Sue  did  not  reply. 

"  Why  aren't  yer  go  out  ternight  ?  " 

"  Don't  always  want  to  be  out,"  said  Sue,  rather 
acidly. 

Mrs.  Groby  got  up  and,  as  she  passed,  looked  enquir- 
ingly at  the  novelette;  the  title  Sir  Lucius  and  His 
Love,  told  her  nothing.  "  Well,  well,"  she  said  com- 
fortably, "  I  used  ter  be  like  you,  Sue.  I  used  to  be  a 
great  reader,  I  did."  Sue  shut  up  the  novelette. 
Then,  as  if  with  intention,  Mrs.  Groby  said :  "  Seen 
Mr.  'Uncote  agin  ?  " 

«  No,"  said  Sue. 


202     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Groby.     Then  again:     "Oh!" 

"  Oh,  what  ?  "  asked  Sue,  suddenly  savage. 

"  Didn't  say  nothing,  merely  thought." 

Sue  stood  up.  She  was  feeling  very  angry,  and 
especially  because  she  did  not  know  why. 

"  Thort  yer'd  'ave  seen  'im  agin,"  said  Mrs.  Groby 
thoughtfully,  and  then  more  cautious,  "  Yer  go  ter  the 
Settlement  so  much.  One  runs  across  people.  It's  a 
small  world."  She  sighed:  that  sort  of  phrase  always 
relieved  Mrs.  Groby. 

Mrs.  Groby  went  on  talking  about  Roger  Huncote. 
She  described  him  in  detail,  pronounced  him  "  a 
'an'some  feller  ",  and  grew  reminiscent  of  an  ostler  at 
the  "  Chequers ",  down  in  Sussex,  "  before  you  was 
thort  of,  my  girl."  She  tried  to  encourage  her  mother 
to  tell  her  the  idyll  but,  as  if  impelled  by  an  instinct, 
Mrs.  Groby  continually  returned  to  Huncote.  She 
wondered  how  much  he  got  paid  at  the  Settlement. 
Sue  had  to  keep  herself  down  so  as  not  to  cry  out  that 
it  was  voluntary  service.  Mrs.  Groby  began  to  specu- 
late as  to  how  he  got  religion,  which  left  Sue  dumb,  for 
religion  was  not  discussed  in  her  world.  Then  Mrs. 
Groby  began  again :  "  Shouldn't  mind  'avin'  another 
look  at  'im.  Now,  Sue,  when  yer  see  'im  agin  — 
Well,  I  never ! "  Mrs.  Groby  stopped,  both  hands 
well  away  from  her  hips,  for  Sue  jumped  up,  seized 
the  candle  and,  with  as  much  dignity  as  speed  allowed, 
went  into  the  inner  room.  Almost  immediately  Mrs. 
Groby  heard  the  sound  of  boots  being  thrown  on  the 
floor  with  unnecessary  violence.  Mrs.  Groby  felt  in- 
dignant: leaving  her  like  that  and  making  all  that 
noise.  She  opened  the  door  a  little  and  whispered: 
"  Stop  that  row ;  I'm  s'prised  at  yer." 

Sue  did  not  reply.  Quickly  undressing  she  got  into 
bed  where  Muriel  was  fast  asleep. 

Muriel  had  had  a  good  Saturday.  Her  hair  plaited, 
she  had  washed  with  care,  washing  being  a  new  taste. 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  203 

On  leaving  the  tenement  she  sat  down  on  the  stairs  to 
slip  on  a  more  than  second-hand  pair  of  grey  spats 
which  she  had  secretly  bought  for  fourpence.  Outside, 
her  particular  Eomeo,  aged  fifteen,  was  serenading  the 
house  to  the  tune  of  "  We  All  Go  the  Same  Way 
Home."  Eomeo  had  drawn  his  wages  that  day,  eight 
bob,  and  paid  nothing  at  home  because  his  mother  was 
a  widow  and  he  a  terror.  So  they  had  been  to  a  pic- 
ture palace ;  a  great  many  oranges,  at  four  a  penny,  had 
been  eaten  in  the  High  Street  and  on  monkey  parade 
much  peel  had  been  flung  at  rival  couples.  She  rushed 
out  after  tea  too,  and  Eomeo,  whom  apparently  noth- 
ing could  repress,  took  her  into  the  gallery  of  the  St. 
Panwich  Empire.  It  had  been  lovely,  she  thought, 
and  Eomeo,  with  thirty  others,  had  whistled  violently 
and  challenged  the  commissionaires  to  come  and  chuck 
'em  all  out.  And  he  tried  to  kiss  her  on  the  way  back. 
"  Behave  yourself,"  thought  Muriel,  proud  and  yet  a 
little  stirred.  She  was  awake,  conscious  of  digestive 
disturbance,  oranges  probably.  She  moved,  tried  to 
find  a  comfortable  position,  and  as  she  so  did  came  up 
against  her  sister's  firm  body.  She  was  preparing  to 
shove  Sue  who  really  took  up  too  much  space  in  bed, 
then  noticed  a  quiver  in  the  shoulder  against  which  she 
lay.  Muriel  became  more  wakeful;  she  listened. 
She  heard  a  regular  wheezing  that  thrilled  and  fright- 
ened her.  A  sharp  little  vowel  sound,  regularly  re- 
peated, it  came,  and  Muriel  was  frightened,  for  the 
big,  warm  shoulder  against  her  trembled.  "  Sue,"  she 
whispered.  Her  sister  did  not  reply.  Half-hesitating 
Muriel  took  her  by  the  arm,  tried  to  turn  her  towards 
her.  For  a  moment  Sue  resisted,  then  gave  way. 
"What  is  it,  Sue?"  Muriel  whispered.  "  What  are 
you  crying  for  ? "  Sue  did  not  reply  but,  embracing 
the  whole  of  her  sister's  narrow  little  shoulders  within 
one  long  arm,  she  kissed  her.  Muriel  clung  to  the 
elder  girl,  not  at  all  mincing  now,  but  afraid  and  very 


204     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

fond,  and  somehow  very  sorry.  "  What  are  you  cry- 
ing for  ?  "  she  asked  again,  and  again,  but  Sue  would 
not  reply  until  at  last  the  little  girl  got  up  and  lit  the 
candle.  But  she  drew  back,  surprised,  for  though 
Sue's  face  was  wet  with  tears,  she  smiled.  It  was  like 
an  April  sun-ray  through  a  shower  and  yet  more 
strange:  such  a  smile  as  Muriel  had  never  seen  before 
on  Sue's  face. 

They  went  to  sleep,  both  of  them,  much  later.  Sue 
was  very  happy.  She  knew  she  could  not  marry  him, 
such  a  swell.  And  though  not  at  all  ignorant  she  was 
far  too  innocent  to  think  of  anything  else.  Shyly  in 
the  dark,  as  her  eyelids  sank  down,  she  whispered  to 
herself  what  she  would  not  have  told  any  one,  even  if 
tortured :  "  I'm  gone  on  him !  "  She  basked  for  a 
little  while  in  the  thought,  then  added :  "  And  very 
nice  too ! " 

She  was  annoyed  in  the  morning.  She  had  em- 
braced somebody  in  a  dream,  but  whether  it  was  Sir 
Lucius  or  whether  it  was  R.  she  did  not  know,  and  it  had 
been  a  confused  dream ;  it  seemed  to  have  been  mainly 
about  eggs.  What  had  eggs  ,  to  do  with  it  ?  This 
troubled  her  so  much  that  she  went  out  specially  to 
the  sweet-shop  in  Northbourne  Eoad  and  bought  "  The 
Key  to  Dreams  "  for  a  penny.  It  was  not  very  clear : 
scarlet  fever  perhaps,  or  a  letter  from  Australia.  She 
disregarded  the  omen  for  already  she  was  happy 
enough  to  think  that  she  could  master  Fate. 

IV 

In  those  times  Huncote  wished  lie  were  more  of  a 
worldling.  He  lived,  he  felt,  too  much  in  the  Settle- 
ment and  for  it.  Analysing  the  last  eight  or  nine 
months,  it  seemed  that  he  had  given  it  nearly  all  his 
time  during  the  day ;  in  the  evening  he  had  often  been 
wanted  for  a  concert,  a  meeting;  when  not  wanted  he 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  205 

had  loafed  away  his  time  with  Churton,  or  at  Ford's 
boxing  class,  or  even  in  the  Progress  Arms.  The  chief 
breaks  had  been  a  few  week-ends  at  St.  Olaves,  and 
for  a  while  in  June  Flora  had  been  exacting,  had  com- 
pelled his  attendance  at  theatres;  he  had  been  asked 
out  to  dinner  a  little  too,  but  all  that  was  the  surface. 
He  had  given  the  Settlement  the  whole  of  his  neophyte 
ardour.  And  now  he  was  not  thinking  of  the  Settle- 
ment, but  of  an  incident  in  Settlement  work.  He  tried 
to  be  reasonable,  to  minimise  the  incident  while  there 
was  time.  Very  seriously,  on  a  hot  night,  he  sat  in 
Finsbury  Park  under  a  chestnut  tree,  still  heavy  with 
pink  castles.  He  was  formulating  his  intentions.  He 
formulated  them  for  a  very  long  time,  head  down,  mak- 
ing a  pendulum  of  his  walking  stick,  looking  so  far 
away  that  two  girls  who  went  by  felt  sorry  for  him  and 
talked  loud  to  indicate  ready  sympathy.  But  he  had 
quite  enough  bother  with  girls  as  it  was,  and  the  up- 
shot of  his  vague  reflections  was  that  he  was  not  going 
to  do  anything  rash.  Oh,  no,  not  going  to  make  him- 
self ridiculous  with  a  silly  intrigue.  He  was  going 
to  be  very  distant  and  see  what  happened.  He  was 
going  to  investigate  and  see  what  she  was  really  like. 
Hang  it  all !  he  had  seen  life,  he  was  not  going  to  be 
carried  away  by  a  pretty  face.  Then  in  the  moon- 
light upon  the  light  earth  at  his  feet,  with  the  point 
of  his  walking-stick,  as  if  a  power  held  his  hand,  he 
tried  to  sketch  a  woman's  profile. 


Sue  felt  the  confidential  impulse.  If  she  had  been 
a  Koman  Catholic  she  would  have  rushed  into  the  con- 
fessional with  a  tiny  little  sin  and  come  out  comfort- 
able with  a  great  big  absolution.  Only  she  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Church  of  England,  so  seldom  went  to 
church,  and  was  not  likely  ever  to  think  of  the  Al- 


206     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

mighty  unless  she  was  in  great  trouble,  or  wanted  some- 
thing very  badly.  Her  true  God,  though  she  did  not 
know  his  name,  was  St.  Anthony  and,  though  she  never 
thought  of  him,  she  trusted  him  and  would  have  asked 
him  to  restore  anything  she  had  lost,  whether  purse  or 
reputation.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  commune  with 
him  in  this  emergency,  for  it  was  too  delightful;  hers 
was  the  English  God,  for  the  days  of  pain,  not  for  those 
of  joy.  For  the  days  of  joy  she  naturally  turned  to 
the  world,  dazzlingly  embodied  in  her  friend,  Ada 
Nuttall.  For  Ada  was  the  world,  and  Sue  secretly 
half -hoped  that  she  was  the  flesh  and  the  devil  too,  for 
she  was  a  manicurist.  There  was  something  meretri- 
cious and  rather  fast  about  manicuring,  Sue  felt. 
Holding  men's  hands  and  all  that.  Ada  Nuttall  was 
a  plump,  fair  young  person  of  twenty-three,  whose  fig- 
ure waged  a  continual  and  sometimes  almost  successful 
contest  with  her  stays.  They  were  not  very  good  stays, 
and  if  Sue  had  not  been  so  innocent  this  would  have 
reassured  her  as  to  Ada's  virtue.  She  was  always  hope- 
ful about  Ada's  virtue,  thought  she  did  not  mean  half 
she  said;  and  still  Sue  hoped  that  she  did  mean  that 
half,  because  this  made  of  Ada  a  dashing,  mysterious, 
dangerous  creature  who  fired  her  younger  friend's 
more  childish  imagination,  made  her  a  frightful  rip. 

She  saw  her  from  the  refuge  at  Piccadilly  Circus 
Tube  Station  where  they  had  appointed  to  meet.  Ada 
was  looking  very  smart  in  that  linen  coat  and  skirt, 
Sue  thought.  And  that  sweet  little  hat,  right  over  the 
eyes.  They  were  nice  blue  eyes  in  the  fresh  face ;  the 
rather  puggy  nose  and  little  pink  mouth  looked  im- 
pertinent, 

"Hello!"  said  Ada. 

"  Hello !  "  said  Sue.  Ada  was  a  hello  girl  and  ad- 
miring Sue  copied. 

They  walked  up  Regent  Street,  Ada  chattering 
steadily  of  the  day's  events  in  the  manicure  parlour, 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  207 

which  was  just  off  Eegent  Street.  Sue  tried  to  listen 
for  a  while  and  to  say  the  right  thing,  such  as  "  An' 
what  did  he  say  to  that  ? "  or  "  Well,  I  never,"  but  the 
shop  windows  fascinated  her.  Ada,  who  was  blase, 
swept  her  past  Swan  and  Edgar's. 

"  And  you  wouldn't  believe  it,  as  soon  as  he  got  in, 
he  took  me  on  his  knee  and  started  cuddling  me." 

"What  did  you  do?"  asked  Sue.  "Smack  his 
face?" 

Ada  giggled.  "  Wouldn't  be  much  of  a  success  if  I 
did  that.  Sat  on  my  dignity." 

"  And  on  his  knee  ?  "  asked  Sue,  suddenly  brilliant. 

Ada  laughed.  "  Well,  not  long,  what  d'yer  take  me 
for?" 

Sue  managed  to  anchor  the  worldling  outside  the 
Samaritaine,  and  for  a  moment  all  was  well;  they  de- 
cided that  these  models  were  not  their  style.  The  con- 
versation passed  from  gallantry  to  dress. 

"  I  always  say,"  Ada  repeated,  "  whatever  you  do, 
wear  something  that's  becoming.  Never  mind  the 
fashions." 

"Yes,"  said  Sue,  much  impressed,  "that's  true. 
Only  how's  one  to  know  ?  " 

The  learned  Ada  unveiled  mysteries :  how,  if  one 
was  stout  and  wore  vertical  stripes,  one  looked  slim; 
how  a  small  waist  should  be  emphasised  (for  she  be- 
lieved in  waists)  by  a  white  belt;  how  to  judge  a  col- 
our by  laying  it  against  your  cheek;  how  to  reduce 
large  features  by  broadening  hat  brims.  It  was  very 
wonderful,  Sue  thought.  All  the  way  up  Kegent 
Street  Sue  gave  the  cues.  She  forced  Ada  to  stand 
awhile  and  stare  at  the  beautiful  lady  in  wax  who  tip- 
toes on  one  foot  to  show  how  one  can  wear  orange  silk 
stays  and  lingerie  like  the  tip  of  a  wave,  and  yet  be- 
have like  an  acrobat. 

Ada  went  on  to  bewail  her  difficulty  in  fitting  her- 
self with  blouses, 


208     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  I'm  an  out-size,"  she  moaned.  She  drew  herself 
up.  "  Still,  it's  not  everybody  dislikes  that."  She 
murmured  confidences. 

Sue  blushed.  "  No,  not  really ! "  she  said  in  a 
thrilled  tone. 

Ada  nodded,  her  blue  eyes  sparkling.  "  And  not 
circle,  neither;  stalls,  that's  the  sort  of  fellow  he 
is." 

As  soon  as  they  crossed  Oxford  Street  and  turned  to 
quieter  regions  the  frightful  rippishness  of  Ada  began 
to  degenerate.  The  fellow  who  had  offered  Ada  stalls 
led  to  reminiscences  of  other  fellows,  and  naturally  to 
Bert.  Ada  was  interested  in  Bert,  for  under  her  doggy 
exterior  was  a  fraudulently  simple  person.  She  liked 
to  talk  like  a  familiar  of  every  night-club,  or  let  us 
say  of  their  vestibules,  but  Sue  knew  very  well  that 
behind  the  pseudo-rake  was  a  girl  most  of  whose  earn- 
ings went  to  support  her  father,  a  more  or  less  paral- 
ysed gasfitter,  and  a  gloomy  grey  mother  who  "  let " 
when  she  could. 

"  Those  fellows,"  Ada  summed  up,  "  they're  all 
right  for  a  lark,  but  they  aren't  safe."  For  a  moment 
both  thought  of  the  less  seductive  but  more  reliable 
men  of  their  class,  and  Ada  said :  "  You  take  it  from 
me;  gentlemen  don't  do  any  good  to  girls  like  you  an' 
me."  She  grew  sensible.  "  They  take  us  out  and 
give  us  a  good  time,  but  they  don't  marry  us,  not  they ! 
Not  that  I'd  marry  one  if  he  wanted  me  to,"  she  went 
on  reflectively.  "  They're  always  getting  divorces, 
that  sort." 

There  was  a  silence  during  which  the  two  girls  re- 
flected upon  high  life  as  stated  by  the  picture  papers. 
It  was  terrible  and  attractive,  the  sinful,  gilded  exist- 
ence. But  Ada's  words  had  opened  a  vein  in  Sue's 
mind ;  at  last  she  spoke : 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Huncote  ?  " 

Ada  thought  for  a  little ;  she  had  been  to  a  Settlement 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  209 

dance  or  two.  "  Can't  say  I  do,"  she  said,  at  last ; 
"  what's  he  like  ?  Where  did  you  pick  him  up  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  pick  him  up,"  said  Sue  indignantly. 
"  You  saw  him  at  the  dance  the  other  day ;  very  tall  he 
is,  and  he's  got  grey  eyes  and  fair  hair,  oh,  such  thick 
fair  hair." 

"  Sue !  "  said  Ada  meaningly. 

But  Sue  did  not  notice  the  inflection.  "  You  should 
see  his  hands,"  she  went  on  sentimentally.  "  They're 
like  —  like  —  well,  like  what  a  baby's  would  be  if  they 
were  big." 

"  'Hem,"  said  Ada,  "  been  holding  'em  ?  "  Sue  went 
crimson.  "  I  see,"  said  Ada.  "  I  remember  the  fellow 
now,  seems  to  me ;  you  danced  a  lot  with  him  that  night, 
didn't  you  ?  Well,  I  wish  you  luck.  Don't  you  forget 
what  I  told  you  about  gentlemen.  Don't  make  yourself 
cheap." 

"  I'm  not  going  to,"  said  Sue  indignantly ;  "  besides, 
there's  nothing  in  it." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Ada,  "  of  course  not.  Anybody  could 
look  at  you  and  see  there's  nothing  in  it.  Since  there's 
nothing  in  it  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Sue  grew  sulky  and  offended;  she  had  to  have  her 
arm  squeezed,  to  be  told  not  to  swank,  before  at  last 
she  confided  what  had  happened  since  the  dance.  She 
told  it  all  very  hurriedly. 

"  Came  round  to  the  washhouse,  did  he  ?  "  said  Ada. 
She  grew  judicial.  "Still,  he  might  have  wanted  the 
address." 

Sue  defended  Huncote,  inferentially  attacked.  She 
felt  guilty,  for  even  Ada  could  not  be  told  all ;  a  senti- 
ment, half-modest,  half -sacred,  prevented  her  from  tell- 
ing how  she  had  been  lost  and  found  on  the  banks  of 
the  sleepy  hollow,  by  the  cropped  gigantic  trees.  It 
was  enough  that  she  should  establish  a  link  of  some  kind 
between  her  and  Huncote. 

"  If  Bert  hadn't  gone  on  so,"  she  said, 


210     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

That  seemed  to  excuse  and  stimulate  her.  Little  by 
little  Ada  accepted  the  interesting  situation,  and  Sue 
began  to  develop  her  attitude:  she  was  going  to  be  re- 
served, in  fact  haughty,  like  Sir  Lucius's  young  lady. 
She  made  Ada  define  "  haughty  ",  and  their  definitions 
agreed,  which  was  comforting. 

"  See  what  I  mean  ?  "  she  said,  "  I'm  not  going  to  let 
on.  She  didn't  let  on."  ("  She "  was  Sir  Lucius's 
young  lady.) 

"  What'll  you  do  ?  "  asked  Ada. 

"  Oo,  I  dunno.  Say  he'll  want  to  do  something  for 
me  and  I'll  say,  '  Pray  don't  trouble.'  Or  what  was  it 
She  said  ?  "  Sue  thought  for  a  moment.  "  Yes,  what 
she  always  says  is,  ( I  am  totally  indifferent  thereto.' ' 

"  Thereto,  that's  a  good  word,"  said  Ada. 

Sue  grew  half -sentimental,  half -stately.  "  Wish  I'd 
a  train,"  she  said,  "  just  to  practise  sweeping  in  and 
out,  you  know,  in  and  out  of  rooms.  She  was  always 
doing  that." 

There  was  a  pause.     Ada  grew  serious. 

"  You're  quite  sure  it's  all  right  ? "  she  said.  "  I 
know  something  about  that  game." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  harm  in  it,"  said  Sue.  "  It's  not  as 
if  I  was  gone  on  him." 

"Hope  you  aren't,"  said  Ada,  "but  I  don't  know; 
what  about  Bert  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Sue,  shyly  and  yet  proudly,  for  she 
was,  it  seemed,  in  the  position  most  desired  of  women : 
to  have  to  choose  between  two  men,  "  it  might  be  a  bit 
awkward,  of  course,  but  ..."  She  stopped  to  think 
that  she  was  really  very  fond  of  Bert,  but  reminding 
herself  of  her  own  dignity,  went  on :  "  I'm  not  going 
to  take  any  more  sorce  from  Bert,  and  the  sooner  he 
knows  it  the  better.  Of  course  .  .  ."  Sue  outlined 
another  dream  where  an  exceedingly  crestfallen  Bert 
would  be  magnanimously  taken  back  and  married. 
Meanwhile  there  would  be  a  very  exhilarating  flirtation 


211 

with  the  swell.  She  was  not  vulgar,  but  she  was  nine- 
teen, and  it  was  all  such  fun. 

The  conversation,  as  they  passed  Euston,  slowly  ebbed 
away  from  the  centre  of. their  interests.  The  rippish- 
ness  of  Ada  was  entirely  gone,  and  now  they  were  once 
more  young  St.  Panwich  girls.  Near  King's  Cross 
they  cheeked  the  policeman ;  they  felt  frightfully  happy 
with  the  day  gone,  and  they  nearly  let  two  young  clerks 
talk  to  them  because  two  girls  may  talk  to  two  men 
while  one  girl  may  not  talk  to  one  man.  And  quite 
near  Paradise  Row  they  indulged  in  a  long  gaze  at  a 
picture  postcard  shop  and  nearly  became  acrimonious, 
because  Ada  preferred  Lily  Elsie  to  Gertie  Millar. 

They  parted  just  in  time  to  get  home  for  tea. 

"  Been  with  Ada,  'ave  yer  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Groby  sus- 
piciously, then  said  no  more.  She  was  disturbed,  for 
she  had  met  Bert  a  few  minutes  before  as  she  ran  out 
to  buy  a  pennyworth  of  tea,  it  being  Friday.  Bert  had 
been  very  sulky,  almost  rude,  and  gave  her  a  message 
she  did  not  understand,  presumably  because  he  was  with 
another  man  and  could  not  speak  out :  "  You  tell  Sue 
I'll  knock  both  their  heads  off !  "  Mrs.  Groby  decided 
not  to  deliver  the  mysterious  message,  but  she  did  not 
like  it. 

VI 

They  came  together  with  the  guilelessness  of  young 
people  who  have  for  hours  been  watching  each  other's 
movements  and  then  meet,  as  they  like  to  put  it,  unex- 
pectedly: assisted  coincidence.  It  happened  in  one  of 
the  corridors  of  the  Settlement  a  little  after  six.  Hun- 
cote  was  coming  out  of  his  office,  and  for  unaccountable 
reasons  hanging  about  his  own  doorway,  while  Sue 
paced  the  corridor  with  a  slow  regularity  revealing  that 
she  had  walked  up  and  down  it  several  times  in  the  last 
few  minutes.  They  were  very  much  upon  their  guard, 
so  much  so  that  the  two  who  met  were  stage  figures,  not 


212     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

a  woman  and  a  man.  Huncote  had  one  hand  in  his 
pocket  and  pretended  to  whistle,  while  Sue  held  her 
head  in  the  air  and  pretended  not  to  know  that  she  was 
wearing  her  best  Sunday  sham  pearls.  She  was  just 
about  to  say:  "Fancy  meeting  you!"  when  just  in 
time  she  remembered  the  haughty  attitude  of  Sir 
Lucius's  young  lady  and  said  in  a  shrill  falsetto: 
"  Gracious !  How  you  startled  me,  Mr.  Huncote !  " 
But  at  once  she  knew  that  she  was  blushing  vivid.  And 
Roger  Huncote  blushed  too,  for  he  had  seen,  as  the 
haughty  head  of  Sir  Lucius's  young  lady  revealed  the 
drooping  crimson  brow  of  Susan  Groby,  something  that 
he  had  never  seen  before  in  any  woman's  eyes,  yet  some- 
thing which  he  recognised  as  if  he  had  been  waiting  for 
it.  It  was  the  love-look,  humid  and  brilliant,  shy  and 
gay,  a  look  that  made  him  think  that  on  a  windless 
night  the  tide  was  rising  on  a  sandy  beach,  the  moon 
shining  for  a  moment  through  the  thin  pale  waters  of  a 
flat  wave.  And  then  it  was  gone  as  a  fitful  gleam 
passing. 

They  laughed,  and  the  laughter  was  uncertain,  for  it 
was  false ;  it  was  the  laughter  of  uneasiness,  hiding  the 
desire  to  exult.  "  My  God ! "  thought  Huncote. 
"  How  beautiful  you  are !  "  And  she,  less  articulate 
even  to  herself,  felt  that  she  was  happy  as  if  the  air 
had  grown  warm  and  sweet-scented. 

"  Come  to  do  some  work  ? "  asked  Huncote  at  last, 
attempting  cheerfulness,  surprised  because  his  throat 
was  dry. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sue,  "  that  is,  No,  only  just  looked  in 
for  a  minute."  She  struggled  to  find  a  motive,  then 
said  vaguely :  "  Left  something  here  the  other  night ; 
came  round  to  fetch  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Huncote,  assuming  vast  interest,  "  have 
you  found  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sue,  still  struggling,  "  I'll  have  to  have 
another  look  round." 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  213 

Then  both  together  felt  that  by  not  mentioning  the 
object  of  the  search  they  were  entangling  themselves  in 
the  loss  of  something  so  personal  that  the  situation  was 
becoming  awkward.  They  were  still  blushing,  looking 
at  each  other  furtively;  they  were  like  two  people 
wrecked  as  small  children  from  separate  ships  at  oppo- 
site ends  of  a  desert  island  who  come  upon  each  other 
in  their  maturity,  man  and  woman,  afraid,  delighted, 
curious,  each  casting  interested  but  covert  glances  upon 
a  strange,  attractive  animal. 

"  I'll  have  to  be  going,"  said  Sue. 

"  Are  you  in  a  hurry  ?  "  said  Huncote.  He  did  not 
want  to  know  that,  only  he  felt  he  must  prolong  this 
minute.  He  had  come  to  the  moment  which  Faust  so 
desired,  could  say  to  the  fleeting  minute :  "  Tarry  yet 
a  while,  thou  art  so  beautiful." 

"  I  must  be  getting  home,"  said  Sue  vaguely,  but 
still  she  did  not  go.  She  stood  in  front  of  him,  her 
brown  fingers  entwining  nervously.  Then  Huncote, 
because  he  was  the  shyer  of  the  two,  plunged. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said  jauntily,  "  I'm  going  too." 

Miracle !  Together  they  went  along  the  corridor  and 
out  of  the  building,  Huncote  leading  and  she  submissive. 
They  made  no  plans.  There  was  no  understanding,  but 
as  they  came  out  of  the  Settlement  they  did  not  turn 
to  the  left  and  across  towards  Paradise  Square;  slowly 
and  silently  they  turned  to  the  right  by  the  High  Street. 
At  a  corner  Huncote  said : 

"  One  can't  hear  oneself  talk  here." 

"  No,"  said  Sue,  though  she  knew  very  well  that 
neither  had  said  a  word,  "  it's  the  trams." 

They  turned  up  a  side  street  and  through  other  little 
streets,  straight  northwards,  as  if  they  had  agreed 
that  they  did  not  want  to  be  seen  together  in  the  High 
Street.  After  a  few  moments  Huncote  grew  self-con- 
scious; assuming  she  did  not  know  where  he  lived,  he 
said: 


THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  taking  you  out  of  your 
way  ? " 

"  Oh,  don't  mensh,"  said  Sue. 

They  went  on  silently  through  the  little  streets  where 
hundreds  of  children  played  hopscotch,  and  here  and 
there  some  large  woman  with  red  arms  talked  to  an- 
other of  her  kind,  or  exchanged  chaff  with  a  canvasser 
who  was  trying  to  sell  her  a  photograph  enlargement. 

They  went  across  Northbourne  Road,  Sue  a  little 
frightened  because  Bert  followed  this  way  homewards 
from  the  workshop.  Perhaps  because  frightened  she 
was  thrilled.  And  Huncote  grew  troubled ;  he  did  not 
know  where  he  was  going  to  or  leading  her,  but  only 
knew  that  so  long  as  he  chose  to  lead  her  she  would 
follow,  and  that  he  was  glad  to  lead.  He  was  tired  of 
struggling  with  his  desire.  He  felt  that  he  wanted 
something  better  than  to  walk  with  her  through  the 
slums;  he  wanted  water  and  a  tree,  something  to  raise 
the  spirit  of  the  sleepy  hollow.  And  as  fortune  favours 
lovers  they  came  suddenly  upon  St.  Panwich  church- 
yard. 

"  Shall  we  go  in  ? "  asked  Huncote,  observing  the 
board :  "  Open  7  A.M.  to  7  P.M."  Then,  as  if  he  feared 
opposition :  "  It'll  be  quieter  in  there." 

Sue  did  not  reply,  but  she  followed,  and  for  a  long 
time  very  slowly  they  walked  among  the  tombs.  She 
was  interested,  and  soon  she  was  hurrying  from  one 
stone  to  another,  marking  the  age  at  which  others  had 
died.  They  found  the  tomb  of  an  old  lady,  aged  ninety- 
two.  "  She  didn't  have  nothing  to  complain  of,"  said 
Sue.  They  found  others,  but  merely  seventies  and 
seventy-fours.  "  The  old  lady  has  it,"  said  Sue,  noting 
the  record. 

Huncote  was  amused:  she  was  so  young  that  death 
seemed  remote  and  meant  nothing  to  her;  it  was  like 
Australia  to  one  who  has  never  left  his  village.  They 
came  upon  a  tomb  with  a  tall  white  column  upon  which 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  215 

was  simply  written :  "  Susannah  Brown,  aged  19." 
They  did  not  say  anything,  but  remained  quite  close  to 
each  other,  their  shoulders  almost  touching.  "  Seems 
a  pity  like,"  Sue  murmured.  "  Just  my  age,"  she 
sighed.  Then,  being  her  mother's  daughter,  she  added : 
"  Such  is  life !  "  She  did  not  offend  the  man's  finer 
taste  for,  with  her  dark  eyes  downcast  and  a  droop  in 
her  full  red  mouth,  she  was  a  picture  of  sweet  melan- 
choly, of  young  life  weeping  over  young  life  gone  to 
dust. 

"  Susannah,"  he  said,  "  that's  your  name  too,  I 
think." 

"  No,"  said  Sue,  "  my  name's  Susan."  She  threw 
him  a  sidelong  glance  to  see  if  this  displeased  him. 
"  Wish  it  wasn't,"  she  added. 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Huncote.  "  You  don't  like  it  ?  But 
it's  a  jolly  name,  a  real  country  name." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sue  grudgingly,  "  it  was  all  along  of 
grandma.  She  came  from  Sussex,  and  she  would  have 
it.  Mother  ought  to've  known  better,"  she  added  pee- 
vishly. "  Only  she  was  afraid  the  savings  would  be 
left  away  from  us;  not  that  we  got  them  after  all,  for 
grandma  was  took  with  religion  and  left  them  to  the 
blacks  in  Africa." 

Huncote  laughed  at  the  little  tragedy.  "  You  may 
laugh,"  said  Sue,  rather  resentful,  "  but  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  that  I'd  been  called  Vera.  Now  that's  a  name. 
Muriel's  all  right;  she  was  born  after  grandma  died." 
She  grew  resigned.  "  Still,  what's  in  a  name  ?  " 

Huncote  said  nothing  and  for  a  moment  wondered 
whether  he  would  have  liked  it  better  if  instead  of 
"  what's  in  a  name  ?  "  she  had  said,  as  he  remembered 
a  schoolmistress  once  said  to  him,  rather  arch  and  con- 
scious of  originality :  "  A  rose  by  any  other  name  would 
smell  as  sweet." 

Little  by  little,  as  they  walked  around  and  around 
the  cemetery,  conscious  now  of  themselves  and  but  little 


216     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

of  watchful,  patient  death,  Huncote  talked  more  freely. 

"  I  thought  you  mightn't  like  to  come  here,"  he  said. 
"  You  might  have  thought  it  depressing ;  you  oughtn't 
to,  you  know.  Death,  you  see,  is  so  necessary  to  life; 
it  takes  away  those  things  and  those  people  who  have 
played  their  part,  and  it  makes  room  for  the  new. 
Death  is  no  enemy,  it  has  no  sting;  it  is  nothing  more 
than  Heaven's  gardener  who  roots  out  the  old  plants 
and  makes  room  for  to-morrow's  flowers;  don't  you 
think  so  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sue. 

"  It  was  a  beautiful  idea,"  Huncote  went  on,  "  to 
build  the  cemeteries  round  the  churches,  churches  where 
one  was  christened  and  married.  Then  indeed  you  had 
a  Holy  Trinity  of  birth,  love,  and  death,  the  three  eter- 
nal things  which  make  one  another  complete  and  which 
without  one  another  cannot  exist." 

They  stopped  for  a  moment  before  a  fresh  grave,  that 
of  a  child;  the  rough  edges  of  the  clay  gleamed  red 
and  were  banked  high  with  a  nest  of  white  roses  and 
lilies.  Somehow  this  changed  Huncote' s  mood,  for  the 
roses  were  thick  and  dewy,  still  violently  alive  as  if, 
consolers  of  the  dead,  they  rioted  in  life's  festival. 
With  swifter  beating  pulses  he  led  her  out  of  the  ceme- 
tery. They  went  again  silently  into  the  streets  and 
silently  too  for  a  while  stood  upon  the  canal  bridge, 
looking  out  towards  the  many  railway  lines  at  Chalk 
Farm,  which  glittered  red  in  the  setting  sun.  Just  be- 
yond a  smokestack  was  crowned  with  a  great  black 
cloud  of  smoke  like  a  djinn  escaping  from  a  bottle. 
Black  the  smoke,  bloody  the  sky,  and  sharp-cut,  as  if 
painted  in  purple  ink,  the  roofs  close-clustered  in  the 
sinking  sun. 

"  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Isn't  it  ?  "  said  Sue. 

She  did  not  mean  what  he  meant;  she  was  thinking 
how  very  tall  that  smokestack  was  and  how  wonderful 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  217 

that  anything  should  be  so  big.  But  he  thought  that 
she  saw  what  he  did;  he  discerned  a  sense  of  beauty 
where  there  was  only  a  sense  of  magnitude.  It  fevered 
him,  this  idea  that  she  was  so  much,  and  could  become 
so  much  more,  even  such  as  himself.  He  began  to  talk 
again,  half  to  himself,  of  beauty  now  and  of  the  cor-  ' 
ners  where  it  lurked,  of  the  strange  fact  that  it  was 
nowhere  and  everywhere  save  where  you  chose  to  place 
it;  that  beauty  was  in  yourself,  in  your  eyes,  and  that 
maybe,  if  you  were  so  made,  all  things  might  become 
beautiful. 

She  listened  patiently,  not  understanding,  yet  de- 
lighted; she  listened  to  his  voice  rather  than  to  his 
words,  and  she  looked  at  his  hands, —  gentleman's 
hands.  But  at  last  she  had  to  speak,  and  now  she  was 
no  longer  Sir  Lucius's  young  lady.  Impetuously  she 
said: 

"  Oo,  you  are  clever !  " 

He  laughed,  he  was  flattered;  he  hated  himself  for 
being  flattered,  and  yet  went  on  being  flattered. 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said,  with  affected  modesty. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are,"  said  Sue,  urgent  champion. 
"  You  could  do  anything,  you  could.  Why,  there's  a 
lady  that  does  Answers  to  Correspondents  in  '  Home 
Chat'—  well— " 

He  shrank ;  it  was  a  little  awkward  to  have  conveyed 
to  him  that  he  might,  well,  perhaps  might  be  the  equal 
of  such  a  one.  Still  he  was  pleased :  for  the  first  time 
she  had  praised  him  directly,  linked  herself  with  him  by 
personal  opinion.  Bond  of  thread  or  bond  of  silk,  what 
did  it  matter  after  all  just  then,  if  only  bond  there  was  ? 

At  the  end  he  said,  surprised  to  find  his  voice  uncer- 
tain :  "  I  say,  we  might  —  we  might  come  out  again 
—  if  we  happen  — " 

"  I  might  run  across  you,"  said  Sue  airily. 


218     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 


VII 

Huncote  found  it  very  difficult  to  talk  to  his  mother 
that  week-end.  Flora  got  into  his  way  by  begging  him 
gently  to  persuade  Mrs.  Huncote  not  to  go  to  Harrogate 
but  to  take  her  to  Dieppe  or  some  other  naughty  place. 
And  Elspeth  was  a  nuisance  too  because  she  had  just 
joined  the  Antis  and  was  conducting  a  vigorous  cam- 
paign of  conversion  against  her  mother;  as  Mrs.  Hun- 
cote took  in  The  Common  Cause  (but  not  The  Suffra- 
gette), and  had  vaguely  approved  of  militancy  until  the 
previous  week  when  the  house  of  some  friends  of  hers 
was  burnt  down,  she  was  much  troubled. 

But  at  last  on  Sunday  night,  when  they  were  alone 
in  the  garden,  he  managed  to  talk.  They  at  last  dis- 
posed of  suffrage  and  of  another  complicated  doubt  of 
Mrs.  Huncote's,  namely,  whether  she  should  sympa- 
thise with  the  farmers  whose  henroosts  were  being 
raided  by  foxes,  or  with  the  local  hunt  to  which  after 
all  her  husband  had  belonged.  Huncote  was  also  told 
every  detail  of  Trunch's  final  misfortune,  which  was  to 
be  sued  for  affiliation. 

"  I  say,"  he  remarked,  quite  casually,  "  there's  rather 
a  funny  thing  happening  to  a  friend  of  mine ;  you  don't 
know  him,  I  s'pose ;  his  name's  —  Corry,"  he  impro- 
vised. "  He  was  at  Gabriel  with  me ;  plenty  of  money 
and  all  that,  and  I  hear  he  wants  to  —  to  marry  —  well, 
a  girl  of  the  people." 

"  What  sort  of  girl  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Huncote. 

"  Oh,  she's  lovely,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  she's  very, 
very  pretty,  and  she's  an  awfully  sweet  girl."  He 
paused,  he  felt  awkward,  he  was  giving  himself  away. 

"  What  does  she  do  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Huncote  obstinately. 

"  She  —  oh,  she's  in  a  factory.  But  she's  awfully  re- 
fined and  all  that.  At  least  Corry  says  so,"  he  added. 

Mrs.  Huncote  said  nothing  for  a  while.  She  stared 
at  the  flower-bed  where  in  the  brilliant  summer  night 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  219 

the  fat  yellow  begonias  spread  like  hands.  She  played 
with  the  fluffy  cockade  of  a  hollyhock  and  said : 

"  Poor  boy !     Can't  anybody  stop  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Huncote,  glad  that  it  was 
night  and  that  she  could  not  see  his  face  too  well. 
Then  he  plunged.  "  But,  after  all,  why  should  one 
stop  it  ? " 

"  My  dear  Roger !  "  said  Mrs.  Huncote,  half -scan- 
dalised. "  How  can  you  talk  like  that  ?  I  really 
thought  you  were  grown  up.  You  tell  me  Mr.  Corry 
is  one  of  us,  and  you  actually  think  —  but  it's  ridicu- 
lous!" She  grew  testy.  "They'll  jar  upon  each 
other,  and  they'll  bore  each  other.  And  of  course  her 
people  are  impossible.  What  are  her  people  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  wily  Roger ;  "  the  usual 
sort,  I  expect." 

"  Exactly.  The  usual,  decent,  respectable  sort ;  per- 
haps the  mother's  been  a  servant,  and  I  s'pose  the  father 
gets  drunk  now  and  then.  It's  social  suicide  to  begin 
with;  probably  the  girl  can't  talk  properly,  and  when 
it  comes  to  entertaining  —  why,  it's  absurd !  You  wait 
until  Mr.  Corry  sees  the  clothes  she  wears." 

Huncote  murmured  something  about  love. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote,  more  softly. 
"  That's  very  wonderful,  and  I'm  not  at  all  surprised ; 
when  one's  in  love  one  doesn't  care  about  class  or  about 
anything  except  love;  only,  you  see,  there's  not  only 
love  in  the  world ;  one  has  to  think  of  all  sorts  of  other 
things." 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  socialist,  Mother,"  said  her 
son,  suddenly  aggressive. 

"  That's  saying  too  much,  Roger.  I'm  quite  in  sym- 
pathy, you  know  that.  And  one  day  I'm  sure  that 
everybody  will  be  educated,  and  that  everybody  can  mix 
together,  but  just  now  it  can't  be  done.  I  hope  I'm  nice 
to  the  servants,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  marry  one  of 
them." 


220     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

He  laughed,  but  nervously:  to  be  himself  involved 
even  as  an  instance  was  frightening.  No,  he  would  get 
no  help  here,  he  thought.  He  was  wrong ;  he  was  being 
given  the  most  powerful  help  that  can  be  given  youth : 
opposition. 

VIII 

It  was  in  a  picture  palace  rather  late  one  afternoon, 
when  Sue  was  free  because  the  great  lady  of  Highbury's 
blouse  was  so  extra  special  that  Mrs.  Groby  had  to  wash 
it  herself,  that  Huncote  remembered  Theresa.  He  had 
not  seen  much  of  her  in  the  last  few  weeks.  The  heat 
affected  her,  and  she  had  not  been  much  to  the  Settle- 
ment. They  had  had  tea  at  the  A.B.C.  opposite  Bub- 
with's,  and  he  had  nearly  seen  her  home  through 
Regent's  Park.  He  remembered  very  little  of  the  con- 
versation, indeed  next  to  nothing  except  that  he  had 
felt  inclined  to  tell  her  what  was  happening  to  him. 
But  his  mother's  reply  had  discouraged  him  from  asking 
advice,  for  he  was  not  yet  cynical  enough  to  own  that 
when  one  asks  somebody  else  for  advice  one  does  not 
want  advice,  one  wants  an  audience.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  precocious  instinct  of  the  world  told  him  that 
man  may  not  talk  of  his  budding  love  for  a  woman  to 
another  young  woman.  That  was  instinct,  not  reason, 
for  Theresa  was  hardly  to  him  woman;  she  was  some- 
thing charming ;  she  was  surrounding,  like  the  sky.  So 
he  did  not  remember  what  they  had  talked  about,  and 
he  was  too  young  to  know  why:  it  was  because  he  had 
talked  only  of  himself. 

He  thought  of  it  vaguely  in  the  picture  palace  with 
Sue  so  near  by  his  side,  so  near  that  he  could  feel  against 
his  sleeve  the  warmth  of  her  arm  through  her  thin 
blouse.  With  Theresa  he  had  thought  of  himself  only ; 
with  Sue  he  was  thinking  of  Sue.  They  were  happy, 
those  two,  she  like  a  child  taken  for  a  treat  to  the  mon- 
key house  at  the  Zoo,  and  he  rather  elderly,  like  the 


221 

people  who  say  that  there  is  nothing  they  like  so  well  as 
taking  children  to  the  Zoo.  She  had  forgotten  all  about 
him,  and  she  bent  forward,  excited,  to  watch  a  cowboy 
drama,  the  central  figure  of  a  pretty  girl  with  flowing 
hair,  who  could  ride,  and  drive,  and  shoot  better  than 
any  Red  Indian.  He  watched  her  for  one  moment  im- 
personal, her  head  craned  forward  on  the  strong  neck, 
her  eyes  gleaming  with  wonder,  her  mouth  a  little  open 
and  dewy,  moving  as  if  she  whispered  to  herself.  Xow 
and  then,  when  something  exciting  happened,  she  said : 
"  Oo !  "  as  the  crowd  does  when  the  fireworks  go  up. 
And  sometimes,  as  if  to  make  him  a  partner  in  her 
pleasure,  she  looked  sideways  at  him  and  smiled.  He 
loved  her  smile,  the  half  pout  of  her  mouth  and  the 
wrinkles  that  formed  round  her  eyes,  eyes  black-am- 
bushed behind  long  lashes. 

Sue  would  have  liked  to  go  with  him  to  a  music  hall, 
for  she  loved  music  halls,  but  they  were  rather  dear. 
She  was  not  mercenary,  only  she  felt  that  here  she  was 
in  the  society  of  wealth.  Why  not?  She  remembered 
the  men  who  afforded  Ada  Nuttall  stalls,  and  visions  of 
red  velvet  tip-up  seats  were  in  her  mind.  Only  she  was 
not  sure  that  music  halls  were  refined  and,  though  now 
and  then  they  lingered  before  the  posters  of  the  Cam- 
den,  she  dared  not  say  anything.  It  never  struck  Hun- 
cote  that  such  a  thing  could  tempt  her:  for  him  the 
music  hall  would  for  ever  be  associated  with  that  year- 
old  night  when  he  got  drunk  and  fell.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand her  delight  in  the  crude,  the  strong,  the  ele- 
mentary; he  overrated  her  capacity  for  romance,  and 
though  he  overrated  it  he  wanted  to  exaggerate  it.  He 
felt,  though  he  did  not  know,  that  romance  was  the  only 
way,  that  romance,  seeker  and  watcher  in  lonely  places, 
could  alone  bring  them  together,  because  the  reality  was 
so  impossible  that  only  in  the  unreal  could  they  dwell. 
So,  led  by  this  instinct,  he  took  her  to  Monsieur  Beau- 
caire  which  a  minor  company  was  reviving  one  night  at 


the  Holloway.  In  another  mood  he  would  have  noticed 
the  strange  crowd,  the  fat  men  with  fat  wives  in  the 
stalls  (Sue  had  attained  to  tip-up  seats)  which  might 
have  made  one  think  that  nobody  lived  in  Holloway 
except  publicans ;  the  cheerful  garishness  of  the  scenery 
would  have  attracted  him.  But  he  was  not  now  at  the 
theatre  with  men,  with  nighty  Flora,  or  impersonal 
Theresa;  his  entertainment  was  much  more  subtle:  he 
was  witnessing  the  drama  of  Sue  entering  into  the 
drama.  She  was  excited,  he  could  see  her  knuckles  grow 
white  as  she  clenched  her  hands  on  the  edge  of  the  seat ; 
he  loved  her  indignation  when  Monsieur  Beaucaire,  so 
high-born  (so  like  Sir  Lucius,  had  he  but  known  it), 
was  treated  as  a  barber.  She  was  the  ideal  audience; 
sometimes  she  seemed  about  to  weep,  then  frankly  she 
would  laugh ;  when  she  wanted  to  laugh  she  nudged  him 
because  she  wanted  him  to  share  her  pleasure.  A  few 
people  noticed  them  and  sighed  sentimentally,  thinking 
what  a  charming  young  couple  they  made.  But,  as  the 
play  grew  all  dramatic  and  Monsieur  Beaucaire's  love 
developed,  Sue  became  rapt.  She  laughed  a  little  hys- 
terically when  for  the  first  time  Monsieur  Beaucaire 
touched  the  high-born  maiden's  hand.  She  was  of 
the  play,  in  the  play,  because  these  simple  emotions, 
love,  hatred,  contempt,  were  things  she  could  under- 
stand, could  feel.  She  did  not  speak  much  during 
the  intervals,  and  Huncote,  charmed  by  her  nearness, 
did  not  try  to  draw  her  out.  It  was  only  much 
later,  when  they  left  the  theatre,  as  they  went  down 
Holloway  Road,  that  he  asked  her  why  she  was  so 
silent. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

They  were  passing  a  belated  barrow  where  under  a 
naphtha  flare  the  fruits  gleamed  like  honey.  She  stared 
at  the  bananas,  then  looked  at  him  and  blushed. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  hesitated.     "  Oh,  nothing  in  particular." 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  223 

"  Do  tell  me,"  said  Huncote,  suddenly  convinced  by 
her  resistance  that  she  hid  something  precious. 

She  blushed  a  deeper  red.     "  I  was  only  thinking." 

"About  what?     The  play?" 

"  Yes  —  that  is,  I  was  thinking  that  Monsieur  Beau- 
caire  was  —  Well,  when  he  said  to  Captain  Badger  — " 
She  grew  excited :  "  You  know  what  I  mean,  the  part 
where  Captain  Badger  says  to  him,  '  Thank  God !  I'm 
not  a  Frenchman ! '  and  he  says,  1 1  send  him  my  thanks 
with  yours,  sir.'  Well  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  what  did  you  think  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  silly.  But  he  looked  so  proud  then,  like  — 
like  you."  She  turned  her  head  away  quickly. 

"  Sue,"  Huncote  whispered  after  a  moment. 

She  did  not  look  at  him  but  went  on  by  his  side.  The 
road  was  dark,  and  they  were  far  from  the  theatre 
crowd.  She  did  not  resist  or  respond  when  he  slid  his 
arm  into  hers  and,  groping  at  her  wrist,  found  her  hand 
and  held  it.  They  did  not  speak,  but  so  walked  on, 
conscious  only  of  the  embrace  of  their  hands,  the  close 
clinging  of  their  warm  palms.  They  were  entirely 
happy  just  then,  with  love  born  between  them,  and  pas- 
sion yet  slumbering;  they  were  given  the  lull  of  peace 
that  comes  before  the  love-storm,  never  to  come  again 
unless  the  lovers  can  successfully  navigate  through  trou- 
bled waters.  They  had  nearly  reached  Paradise  Square 
before  they  spoke  again,  and  did  not  want  to  release 
each  other.  Just  then  Huncote  grew  self-conscious. 

"  Sue,"  he  murmured,  "  you  don't  mind  my  holding 
your  hand  ? " 

The  girl  did  not  reply.  She  seemed  to  hesitate. 
Then  suddenly  she  wound  her  fingers  around  his  and 
pressed  them  hard  as  if  she  wanted  to  hurt  him.  She 
looked  at  him  quickly  and  in  a  voice  rather  hoarse,  said : 
"Goodnight!" 

She  walked  away  quickly,  as  if  running  away.  He 
despised  himself  a  little  later  because  he  had  not  fol- 


224     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

lowed  her ;  but  as  she  said  "  Good-night "  he  had  seen 
the  wonder-pools  of  her  eyes,  gleaming  like  wood-brown 
water  under  willows  .  .  . 

Huncote  was  not  thinking  any  more.  The  time  for 
that  had  gone,  the  time  for  action  come,  and  yet  he  took 
no  action.  Action  was  now  being  taken  by  both  of 
them,  or  rather  by  the  impenetrable,  fugitive  thing 
which  was  each  of  them,  and  both  of  them,  and  separate 
from  both  of  them,  their  child  and  their  leader. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  he  tried  to  take  her  to  a 
matinee  at  Tree's,  but  the  house  was  full,  and  doubt- 
less all  other  theatres  would  be  full  too :  it  was  so  fine, 
he  thought  it  was  a  pity  to  be  shut  up.  So  he  per- 
suaded her  into  a  taxi  where  she  sat,  feeling  very  grand 
and  afraid,  with  the  hood  down  and  all  London,  she 
knew,  looking  at  her,  a  sparkle  in  her  eye,  just  like  one 
of  the  children  in  Paradise  Row  when  it  has  been  given 
a  very  large  sugarstick.  They  were  stiff  and  self-con- 
scious, both  of  them,  on  that  triumphant  drive,  Sue's 
first  drive  in  a  taxi,  an  epic  drive  at  eightpence  a  mile. 
But  very  soon  in  Battersea  Park  where  that  day  there 
were  many  people  playing,  little  boys  at  cricket,  older 
boys  at  love,  they  were  very  close  together,  so  close 
that  they  could  have  afforded  silence  and  belonged  to 
each  other  at  the  first  touch.  For  the  first  time  they 
spoke  of  love.  They  spoke  shyly,  impersonally:  Hun- 
cote  of  what  a  man  had  said  to  him,  Sue  of  the  mar- 
riage of  a  friend ;  they  were  afraid  of  it,  but  could  not 
avoid  it.  They  veiled  love  with  anecdote  and  report,  as 
other  classes  veil  it  with  sociology  and  eugenics.  But 
in  spite  of  her  reticence  Sue's  attitude  appeared  simple. 

In  answer  to  a  contradiction  she  said : 

"  Oh !  I'd  never  want  anybody  else,  not  if  I  was 
fond  of  him." 

Huncote  thrilled  as  she  said,  "  fond  of  him."  It  was 
so  much  dearer  because  rarer  than  if  she  had  said,  "  If 
I  loved  him."  It  was  more  delicate  too.  They  talked 


THE  WONDERPOOLS  225 

of  jealousy,  and  Sue,  for  a  moment  relapsing,  asked  him 
if  he'd  be  true  to  eyes  of  blue  when  looking  .  .  .  They 
laughed,  but  the  laughter  was  uneasy,  and  Sue  inno- 
cently let  him  see  that  for  her  the  world  ended  as  it  did 
in  the  novels  of  1885 :  wedding  bells  and  happiness  ever 
after. 

By  imperceptible  transitions  they  passed  to  the  de- 
grees of  love.  This  because  Sue  had  thought  of  Bert 
and  told  herself  that  after  all  they  could  still  be  friends. 
She  tried  to  explain  to  Huncote  without  mentioning 
Bert  the  extraordinary  theory  that  men  and  women  can 
be  friends,  come  together  unattracted,  remain  with  each 
other  unsatisfied. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  see  what  you  mean.  Going 
about  together  and  having  the  same  tastes." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sue,  "  it  would  be  so  nice  to  be  friends." 

They  were  almost  alone  in  the  plantation  where  the 
little  path  winds  in  and  out  between  the  palisade  of 
crisscross  wood.  The  sun  fell  heavy  through  the  tall 
shrubs,  and  somewhere  a  bird  sang.  They  looked  at 
each  other  seriously,  vaguely  thinking  of  friendship  and 
perhaps  at  the  last  moment  hoping  that  friendship  might 
protect  them  against  love,  for  love  is  so  dangerous  that 
it  is  frightening.  But  it  was  no  use,  they  knew  it  very 
well;  they  could  not  have  put  it  into  words,  either  of 
them,  but  the  third  being,  their  child  and  leader,  was 
whispering  to  them  that  they  were  fools,  that  no  longer 
did  the  man  think  of  educating  and  raising  the  people, 
that  the  woman  did  not  want  a  flirtation  tempered  by 
haughtiness.  They  were  just  two  young  people  who 
had  fallen  in  love.  He  put  both  hands  upon  her  shoul- 
ders and  felt  them  tremble  through  the  thin  stuff.  She 
drew  away  from  him  and  as  she  so  did  came  closer.  He 
was  afraid,  for  the  feel  of  those  firm  shoulders  in  his 
hands  shook  him,  repelled  as  it  drew  him:  this  was  too 
sharp  a  delight.  But  still,  so  shaken,  they  did  not  move 
away  from  each  other.  Indeed  they  drew  closer,  and 


226     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

yet  closer  until  she  was  all  gathered  in  his  arms,  crum- 
pled small  as  if  hiding,  delighted  and  afraid,  pressing 
against  him  with  all  her  weight  as  if  she  begged  him  to 
hold  her  so  tight  that  even  if  she  wanted  to  she  could 
not  run  away. 

"  Sue,"  he  murmured,  "  I  love  you,  you've  known 
that  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  reply,  but  he  thought  her  cheek  pressed 
heavier  against  his  breast.  He  bent  down,  raising  her 
face  a  little  so  that  he  could  look  into  the  eyes  veiled  by 
the  pale  lids.  "  Tell  me,"  he  said  again,  "  do  you  love 
me  ?  Will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

She  did  not  reply  for  a  long  time,  but  there  lay  smil- 
ing; she  was  sleepy  in  his  grasp,  and  he  was  stirred 
by  the  faint  scent  of  her  hair.  As  she  so  lay  her  smile 
was  that  of  a  child  that  dreams  a  happy  dream.  Then 
she  opened  her  eyes  and  for  the  first  time  he  saw  them 
as  they  were,  with  their  different  colours,  the  opales- 
cence  of  their  whites  and  the  incredulous  joy  in  them, 
a  little  light  in  each  eye,  like  a  beacon. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  but  .  .  ." 

"But  what?" 

"  But  you  and  I  —  we're  different." 

He  bent  lower.  "  What  does  it  matter  if  I  love  you 
and  you  love  me  ?  " 

She  did  not  reply,  and  for  a  moment  over  both  of 
them  hung  a  filmy  certainty  that  it  did  matter.  It 
passed  away  at  once;  they  were  Adam  and  Eve  in  the 
Garden,  instructed,  and  the  Serpent  slunk  away. 

"  Oh,"  she  murmured.  And  moved  by  instinct  rather 
than  intention  she  raised  her  face  a  little  towards  his. 
They  were  all  alone  then,  as  with  mingled  lips  and  eyes 
drowning  eyes  they  blotted  out  the  world. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTH 

THE   TWILIGHT    OF   ST.    OLAVES 


"  I  S'POSE  you'll  be  taking  a  holiday  soon,"  said  Chur- 
ton. 

Huncote  looked  up  from  the  Settlement  accounts 
which  he  was  running  through  with  the  vouchers  prior 
to  the  auditor's  visit.  He  had  not  been,  he  found,  fix- 
ing his  mind  very  well  upon  the  figures;  he  had  been 
thinking  of  something  else,  and  so  he  felt  it  quite  natu- 
ral to  reply: 

"  Yes,  I  should  say  so.  I  might  combine  a  holiday 
with  a  honeymoon." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Churton.     "  You're  not  ..." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Huncote  defiantly,  prepared  to 
find  opposition  before  it  arose. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Churton,  "  my  dear  fellow  —  I  — 
congratulate  you  —  I'd  no  idea !  "  He  paused. 

Huncote  was  looking  at  him  rather  watchfully  as  if 
he  had  observed  in  his  voice  what  indeed  was  there, 
envy,  faint  disgust.  For  Churton  had  assumed  with 
his  clerical  training  the  attitude  which  the  full-fledged 
priest  often  escapes.  He  hated  matrimony  or,  at  best, 
he  afforded  it  a  sort  of  Pauline  toleration. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "  I  never  knew  there  was 
anybody.  Might  I  ask,  do  I  know  her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Huncote  airily.  "  Miss  Susan 
Groby." 

"  Miss  Susan  Groby ! "  said  Churton  reflectively. 
"  Yes,  I  seem  to  know  that  name  .  .  ."  He  wrinkled 
his  brows. 


228     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Yef,  you  do  know  the  name,"  said  Huncote. 
"  She's  one  of  the  girls  who  comes  to  the  Settlement, 
and  her  mother's  a  washerwoman." 

There  was  a  very  long  silence  during  which  the  two 
men  watched  each  other,  Churton  too  surprised  to  do 
anything  but  keep  his  mouth  wide  open,  and  Huncote 
anxious  to  attack  him  upon  the  slightest  provocation. 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Churton,  "  I  —  I  —  I 
congratulate  —  I  hardly  know  what  to  say.  I  —  you 

—  you've  known  her  some  time  ?  "     He  was  trying  to 
gain  a  few  seconds  to  think. 

"  Yes,  some  months,"  said  Huncote.  "  You  remem- 
ber her,  don't  you  ?  She's  very  dark,  and  I  think  her 
rather  pretty ;  don't  you  ?  " 

He  felt  mischievous.  Churton  said  nothing  for  a 
moment;  he  remembered  the  girl  much  better  than  he 
chose  to  say;  he  too  thought  her  pretty,  and  for  a  space 
she  had  occupied  a  little  those  over-sexed  celibate 
thoughts  of  his.  Yes,  she  was  pretty  and  all  that,  but 
really  .  .  .  Then  he  made  a  brave  effort,  the  sort  of 
effort  he  would  have  made  if  he  had  been  a  curate ;  he 
became  benevolent. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  very  glad,  very  glad  indeed." 
He  leant  across  his  desk  and  heartily  shook  Huncote's 
hesitating  hand.  "  Of  course  it  is  —  rather  unconven- 
tional. I  hope  you'll  be  very  happy  —  There  may  be 

—  little  difficulties,  but  then — '      He  made  a  broad 
gesture.     "  When  two  people  care  for  each  other  —  in 
spite  of  all  differences  .  .  ." 

"  That'll  do ;  thanks  awfully,  old  chap." 
Huncote  felt  he  was  doing  fairly  well  for  a  trial  run, 
but  he  could  not  let  Churton  go  on.  He  returned  to  the 
accounts.  Once  or  twice,  when  he  half-looked  up,  he 
could  see  Churton  watching  him  with  an  extraordinary 
expression:  he  was  looking  at  him  as  one  looks  at  the 
man  who  steps  out  of  the  crowd  when  a  taxi  runs  into 
a  bus  and  offers  his  card  to  the  policeman;  there  was 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     229 

admiration  in  the  look,  disapproval,  incredulity.  Still, 
it  had  gone  off  all  right,  and  when  Huncote  returned  to 
the  Settlement  in  the  evening  it  was  clear  that  the  Com- 
mittee, who  received  the  information  in  the  afternoon, 
had  passed  nem  con  an  amazed  resolution  to  take  it 
smiling. 

Miss  Miskin  inclined  to  be  slightly  tearful  and  acrid 
as  she  clasped  his  hands  in  her  saurian  fingers.  Platt 
was  large  and  bold  and  beaming,  and  smacked  him  on 
the  shoulder  several  times,  after  which  he  asked  him  not 
to  be  too  rash,  and  generally  conveyed  a  mixed  impres- 
sion of  concern  for  the  preservation  of  the  upper  classes 
tempered  by  regard  for  the  claims  of  democracy.  And 
Mrs.  Ramsey  said  she  was  glad  to  hear  he  was  going  to 
marry  her,  her  voice  carrying  an  indefinable  hint  that 
she  was  surprised,  presumably,  because  it  had  not  oc- 
curred to  Huncote  to  use  a  method  more  habitual  and 
ending  in  Buenos  Ayres.  It  all  went  very  well,  and 
the  few  frequenters  of  the  Settlement  who  found  out 
merely  gaped  at  him.  Huncote  did  not  have  to  talk  to 
them  about  his  marriage,  but  it  was  quite  clear  that 
they  looked  upon  him  as  a  man  removed,  whether  for 
hanging  or  for  coronation  it  was  impossible  to  tell. 
Indeed  all  would  have  gone  admirably  if  later  in  the 
evening  George  Green  had  not  appeared  in  the  lobby 
flushed  with  information. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  'Uncote,  congratulate  you !  I 
hear  you're  going  to  settle  down  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Huncote. 

"  Nothing  like  it,  my  boy,  nothing  like  it !  I  know 
the  lady,  very  nice  lady  too."  A  flush  rose  into  the 
pudgy  white  cheeks.  "  Remember  her  quite  well ;  I'd  a 
dance  with  her  the  other  time,  you  remember.  No 
'arm  in  it.  Some  girls,  I  don't  say."  He  prodded 
Huncote  with  his  elbow.  "  Eh,  wot  ?  But  not  Miss 
Groby."  Huncote  suddenly  felt  very  hot  about  the 
eyes;  he  did  not  reply  and  George  Green  went  on: 


230     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  You  take  it  from  me,  she's  a  nice  girl,  she  is.  I  know 
something  about  girls,  living  in  St.  Panwich  all  me  life. 
Some  of  them  —  well,  red  pepper  ain't  in  it.  I  could 
tell  you  a  thing  or  two."  Churton  came  in  and,  much 
to  his  horror,  Green  proceeded  to  tell  Huncote  a  thing 
or  two,  the  usual  sort  of  thing : 

"  Used  to  take  'em  down  to  Brighton  for  the  week- 
end," said  the  builder.  Then  sentimentally  he  added : 
"  Happy  days !  "  But  his  attention  again  concentrated 
on  Huncote,  who  was  moving  from  right  to  left,  trying 
to  get  past  him  to  the  door.  "  D'you  know,  Mr.  'Un- 
cote,"  he  said,  "  if  you'll  excuse  me  saying  so,  I  didn't 
think  you  were  that  sort.  I  never  saw  you  making 
goo-goo  eyes.  I  thought  you  were  one  of  the  serious 
lot,  like  our  friend  there."  He  jerked  his  thumb 
towards  Churton.  "  And  for  all  I  know,  there  you've 
been  every  night  under  her  window  gargling  a  little  love- 
song."  He  nudged  him.  "  Sly  dog !  "  He  laughed, 
and  Huncote  was  filled  with  a  rage  which  prevented 
him  from  speaking.  Then  Green  said :  "  Well,  wish 
you  luck !  Shouldn't  mind  if  it  was  me  instead  of  you ; 
she's  a  nice  little  bit  of  crackling !  " 

As  the  door  opened  to  frame  the  kindly  amplitudes  of 
Platt,  Huncote  drew  back  and  struck  Green  full  upon 
the  jaw.  The  fat  man  seemed  to  hang  helplessly  in 
the  air  for  a  second  and  then  came  crashing  down  to 
the  floor. 

"  Huncote !  "  cried  Churton.     "  Good  heavens !  " 

Platt  hurried  into  the  room  to  pick  up  one  of  his  chief 
supporters.  Green  was  half  stunned. 

"  Never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  my  life,"  Platt 
cried,  while  Churton  stood  in  front  of  Huncote  as  if 
afraid  that  he  might  hit  the  builder  while  he  was  down. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  get  out  of  it  quick ; 
we'll  make  it  all  right.  It  mustn't  get  about." 

Huncote  did  not  reply;  his  body  was  thrilling  with 
the  reaction  from  his  fury.  But  his  knuckles  hurt  a 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     231 

little,  and  it  had  been  delicious  to  feel  the  teeth  outlined 
under  the  cheek  as  he  hit  it.  Churton  took  him  by  the 
arm. 

"  Look  here,  do  get  out,  he's  coming  to ;  we'll  make 
it  all  right." 

"  If  he  wants  any  more  .  .  ."  said  Huncote  quietly. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  a  silly  ass." 

Platt  raised  his  head :  "  Yes,  do  go  away,  Hun- 
cote." 

Green  sat  up ;  he  looked  stupid,  with  one  side  of  his 
collar  burst  away  from  the  stud  and  a  big  purple  mark 
on  his  jaw.  Huncote  laughed,  half -hysterically. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  he  said,  "  I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  apolo- 
gise ;  see  you  all  to-morrow." 

He  went  out. 

There  were  no  consequences.  The  next  morning  he 
publicly  apologised  to  Green,  explaining  that  he  had 
been  over-wrought.  Green  understood,  he  quite  under- 
stood. 

"  Let  bygones  be  bygones,"  he  said.  "  Now  you'll  be 
wantin'  a  house  in  town,  Mr.  'Uncote.  That  bit  of  land 
—  the  fly-fishing  school,  that  ain't  sold  yet,  eh  ?  "  He 
nudged  him. 

Just  as  Huncote  was  about  to  leave  the  Settlement  to 
go  to  St.  Olaves  he  ran  into  Mr.  Ford.  Fighting  Bill 
almost  embraced  him. 

"  Good  boy !  Good  boy !  "  he  repeated  endlessly. 
"  Wish  I'd  seen  it,  didn't  think  you  had  the  guts.  Let 
me  feel  your  deltoid."  He  thrust  his  hand  into  Roger's 
waistcoat  and  pawed  his  shoulder  and  breast.  "  Not 
bad !  You  come  along  to  me  one  evening,  and  I'll  make 
a  man  of  you.  Nothing  like  it  in  married  life,  my  boy ! 
You  ask  my  missus  what  I  do  to  her  on  Saturday 
nights." 

They  laughed  together.  Huncote  liked  Fighting 
Bill ;  he  was  a  man.  A  few  hours  later  he  was  at  St. 
Olaves. 


232     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

II 

His  impulse  as  he  entered  the  house  was  to  cry  out: 
"  I'm  going  to  marry  a  washerwoman's  daughter !  " 
But  reserve  struggled  with  exultation  and  defiance;  in 
the  evening  he  wasted  a  chance  of  speaking  to  his  mother 
alone  and  solemnly  joined  in  family  auction  at  two- 
pence-ha'penny a  hundred.  When  the  game  ended 
after  two  rubbers,  and  Elspeth  and  Flora  went  to  bed, 
he  hung  about  a  little,  opening  books  and  looking  at 
pictures  that  he  had  known  all  his  life,  sitting  down, 
crossing  and  uncrossing  his  legs,  and  yawning  without 
showing  any  intention  of  going  to  bed.  Enough  in  fact 
to  convince  Mrs.  Huncote  that  he  had  something  on  his 
mind.  She  taxed  him  with  it,  and  he  vehemently  de- 
nied it.  As  she  was  accustomed  to  the  sort  of  man  who 
cannot  explain  she  gave  him  a  drink  and  sent  him  to 
bed,  hoping  it  was  not  hay  fever.  Roger  passed  a  mixed 
night  in  which  he  planned  scenes  of  fierce  contest  and 
magnificent  speeches,  beginning :  "  Mother  and  sis- 
ters," and  containing  a  great  deal  about  the  equality  of 
mankind.  Had  he  but  known  it,  he  was  inconceivably, 
like  Bert  Caldwell.  At  other  times,  when  he  woke  up, 
which  happened  frequently,  he  prepared  tactful  open- 
ings, cunning  little  leading-ups  from  the  condition  of 
the  cathedral  to  questions  as  to  whether  the  Dean  ever 
officiated  at  weddings,  and  then  it  would  be  simple.  He 
had  a  very  bad  appetite  at  breakfast. 

Then  Huncote,  having  been  tactful  all  night,  dis- 
played the  ignorance  of  the  innocent  and  pure.  He 
tackled  his  mother  .  .  .  He  did  not  realise  that  one 
does  not  talk  to  everybody  at  the  same  time;  he  should 
have  known  that  the  time  for  a  man  is  halfway  through 
the  after-dinner  cigar ;  that  the  time  for  a  young  girl  is 
half  an  hour  after  lunch,  when  she  is  feeling  well  and 
wondering  what  she  will  do  next,  and  generally  inter- 
ested and  vivid;  but  that  the  time  for  a  matron  is  not 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     233 

after  lunch,  when  she  wants  to  lie  down,  nor  before 
lunch  when  dishing-up  is  on  her  mind,  nor  just  before 
tea  when  she  is  sleepy  and  sulky,  nor  just  after  break- 
fast when  she  is  thinking  over  what  that  morning  she 
must  order  and  buy;  he  should  have  known  that  there 
are  only  two  hours  for  the  matron,  apart  from  the  over- 
public  tea-time:  a  little  while  after  this  soothing  tea, 
and  before  she  has  begun  to  bother  about  dressing,  or 
the  quiet  restfulness  of  after  dinner,  particularly  if  she 
smokes.  No,  quite  suddenly,  when  Mrs.  Huncote  was 
thinking  that  she  must  tell  Betty  to  take  the  drawing- 
room  curtains  down,  ask  Trunch  whether  the  mare  was 
better,  and  make  a  list  including  the  plumber,  Mudie's 
and,  above  all,  the  stationer  in  view  of  a  new  time-table, 
he  said: 

"  Mother !  What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  I  was 
going  to  get  married  ?  " 

Mrs.  Huncote  stared.  He  was  blushing;  but  for  his 
clothes  anybody  could  have  seen  he  was  blushing  all 
over,  but  he  felt  much  better:  out  at  last! 

"  Married  ?  Eoger  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Huncote  uneasily. 
"  Oh  —  of  course,  I  know  you'll  get  married  some  day, 
still  I  didn't  expect  —  I  —  I  didn't  know  there  was  any- 
body —  Who  is  it  ?  " 

Huncote  hesitated,  and  his  blush  grew  hotter. 

"  Well,  Mother,  I'm  afraid  you  haven't  met  her ;  she 
lives  in  London." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote  encouraging,  "  but  why 
didn't  you  tell  me  before  ?  " 

"  It  was  rather  sudden,"  he  murmured  desperately. 

"  Oh !  "  Then  her  preoccupation  with  plumber  and 
stationer  intruded  on  her;  she  grew  a  little  sharp. 
"  But  do  tell  me  all  about  it,  Roger ;  one  might  think 
you  thought  I  didn't  care.  What's  her  name  ?  Where 
did  you  meet  her  ?  " 

"  Mother,"  said  Huncote,  with  a  great  effort,  "  it's  so 
difficult." 


234     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Mrs.  Huncote  guessed.  "  Roger !  "  she  whispered. 
"  You  don't  mean  to  say  .  .  ."  Horrible  visions  of 
tow-headed  barmaids  rushed  through  her  mind.  Young 
men  did  that  sort  of  thing  at  Oxford.  A  suspicion 
crossed  her  mind.  "  You  aren't  married  already, 
Roger  ? " 

He  looked  offended. 

"  As  if  I  could  do  such  a  thing  without  asking  you." 

Mrs.  Huncote  grew  more  and  more  suspicious. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you're  asking  me?  It  sounds 
rather  as  if  you  were  telling  me." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  cried  Huncote,  jumping  up 
and  walking  agitatedly  round  the  table.  "  Oh,  you 
must  let  me  speak  plainly  —  she's  not  one  of  us,  you 
see.  She's  quite  young  —  and  I  know  you'll  think  her 
pretty  —  and  I  know  you'll  like  her,  only  don't  make  up 
your  mind  in  advance,  don't  be  against  it  before  you 
know." 

"  I'm  not  against  it,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote,  "  but  you're 
putting  me  against  it.  What  are  you  hiding?  Who 
is  she  ? "  Mrs.  Huncote  was  definitely  frightened 
now. 

"  She  works." 

"  Well,  lots  of  girls  do.     What  does  she  do  ?  " 

"  She  helps  her  mother." 

"  Oh !     What  does  her  mother  do  ?  " 

Huncote  performed  on  himself  what  amounted  to  a 
surgical  operation. 

"  She  —  washes  —  fine  laces  and  all  that,"  he  added 
hurriedly. 

Mrs.  Huncote  remained  blankly  silent. 

"  Oh,  it's  no  use  pretending ;  I've  only  seen  her 
mother  once;  they're  quite — well,  you  know  the  sort 
of  people,  hard-working,  nice,  respectable  people.  Of 
course,  I  don't  expect  you  to  like  the  idea;  only  you 
should  see  Sue." 

"  Sue  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Huncote. 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     235 

"Yes,  her  name's  Sue;  Susan  Groby.  She  used  to 
come  to  the  Settlement.  She's  frightfully  pretty." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote. 

"  Oh,  Mother,  don't  say  of  course  like  that !  It's 
something  else ;  she's  so  sweet  and  gentle,  and  innocent, 
and  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  I  can't  help  it,  I've  just  got  to 
marry  her." 

"  Got  to  marry  her  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Huncote.  "  What 
d'you  mean,  Roger?  It's  no  use  being  shy  now.  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you've  placed  her  in  such  a  posi- 
tion that  you've  got  to  marry  her  ?  " 

He  did  not  understand  for  a  moment ;  then  he  flushed 
with  indignation. 

"  Mother !  How  can  you !  Oh,  if  you  knew  her  you 
wouldn't  say  a  thing  like  that." 

"  Sorry.  Only  you  put  it  in  that  way.  So  it 
amounts  to  this :  you're  going  to  marry  the  daughter  of 
a  washerwoman,  and  you're  asking  me  to  say  '  Yes.' 
The  point  is  —  would  it  be  any  use  my  saying  '  No  '  ?  " 
She  asked  this  because  on  her  previous  question  she  had 
seen  his  eyebrows  knit  together  in  that  familiar,  obsti- 
nate frown.  Now  he  did  not  reply,  and  her  heart  grew 
small  and  shrunken,  for  the  son  who  does  not  disabuse 
his  mother  when  for  a  moment  she  doubts  her  power 
over  him  has  become  a  man.  Bitterly  she  quoted  to 
herself  two  lines  of  Yeats.  Half -aloud  she  murmured : 

"I  kiss  you,  I  kiss  you,  my  pigeon,  my  own, 
How  I  shall  miss  you  when  you  have  grown." 

"  What  am  I  to  say  ?  I  can't  say  '  Yes '  just  like 
that.  You  know  what  I  said  the  other  day  when  you 
talked  to  me  about  Mr.  Corry.  Oh,  Roger!  Oh! 
There  was  no  Mr.  Corry !  It  was  you,  wasn't  it  ?  Oh, 
it  wasn't  fair." 

He  looked  at  her  miserably:  no,  of  course  it  wasn't 
fair,  it  wasn't  straight.  But  what  was  he  to  do?  He 
shifted. 


236     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Yes,  you  said  something  about  class  then,  didn't 
you?" 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  you." 

"  JSTo,  but  you'd  have  said  the  same  thing,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"  Yes,  more  or  less.  You  know  I'm  not  mad  on 
class,  don't  you  ?  But  still  .  .  ." 

"  But  still  you  think  it  won't  work  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Huncote. 

Mrs.  Huncote  went  out  to  shop  and  during  the  whole 
of  that  day  the  situation  developed.  Elspeth  was  told : 
she  was  perfectly  clear  that  this  was  preposterous.  She 
shocked  her  mother  very  much  by  wishing  Roger  had 
sowed  more  wild  oats.  As  for  Flora,  she  behaved  still 
worse,  for  she  declared  that  it  was  just  like  Pygmalion, 
and  wondered  within  Mrs.  Huncote's  hearing  whether 
Sue  said  "  Not  likely  "  or  more  extensively  garnished 
the  remark. 

There  was  another  small  scene  at  dinner:  the  situ- 
ation was  so  grave  that  Mrs.  Huncote  postponed  her 
journey  to  Harrogate,  and  left  herself  in  the  position 
almost  inconceivable  to  her  class  of  not  going  away  in 
August.  The  battle  lasted  three  days  and  was,  if  not 
won,  at  least  saved  from  defeat  not  by  the  justice  of 
Huncote's  cause,  but  by  the  savage  opposition  of  Els- 
peth, which  created  a  reaction  in  Mrs.  Huncote's  breast. 
Mrs.  Huncote  was  destroyed  by  her  own  ally.  It  was 
saved  too  by  some  new  reflections  in  Flora's  brain: 
Roger  would  doubtless  have  a  nice  house  instead  of  those 
dreadful  rooms  in  St.  Panwicti;  if  he  did  not  marry 
Sue  he  might  not  marry  anybody  for  years,  while  if  he 
did  .  .  .  Well,  she  could  go  and  stay  with  them,  with 
a  chaperone  who  did  not  chaperone !  That  would  make 
the  way  easy  for  somebody  quite  new,  called  Peter. 
Also  it  would  be  no  end  of  a  rag. 

"  Bring  her  to  see  me,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote  warily, 
#s  she  kissed  Roger  good-by. 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     23T 


III 

"  Well,  I  never !  "  said  Mrs.  Groby. 

"  Same  'ere,"  said  Mr.  Groby. 

"  Now  yer  sorry  yer  didn't  let  'er  try  for  that  there 
scholarship  at  'Arrods." 

"  I  never  'ad  no  edication,"  said  Mr.  Groby.  "  It 
never  done  me  no  'arm." 

"  Ah !  But  think  o'  the  good  it  might  'ave  done  yer," 
said  Mrs.  Groby,  begging  the  question. 

Mr.  Groby  thought  for  a  while. 

"  Any'ow,"  he  said,  "  it'll  keep  yer  out  o'  the  work- 
'ouse." 

Outside,  in  Paradise  Row,  Muriel  passed  with  the 
faithful  Romeo  who  was  playing  "  Who  Were  You  With 
Last  Night  ?  "  upon  a  mouth-organ. 


IV 

It  had  been  rather  awkward,  for  Mrs.  Groby  beamed 
and  almost  bobbed  as  if  she  were  still  a  Sussex  child, 
and  called  him  Sir,  and  looked  very  hot,  and  had  been 
ashamed  to  wipe  her  face.  And  Mr.  Groby,  who  had 
come  specially  early  on  this  Saturday  afternoon  instead 
of  passing  the  rest  of  the  day  at  his  club,  found  it  very 
difficult  to  talk  to  Huncote.  They  had  stared  at  each 
other  mostly,  the  fastidious  young  man  trying  hard  to 
be  easy  with  one  who  would  soon  expect  him  to  call  him 
Father ;  Mrs.  Groby  always  called  him  Father,  but  this 
did  not  seem  to  make  things  easier,  indeed  more  diffi- 
cult. As  for  Mr.  Groby,  a  big  red-faced  person  of 
forty-five,  rather  bald  except  where  his  grey  hair  was 
dyed  black,  after  offering  Huncote  a  woodbine  he  found 
himself  with  his  mouth  open.  Then  to  show  that  they 
were  quite  at  ease,  he  became  effusively  familiar,  told 
him  he  was  one  of  the  right  sort,  and  asked  him  which 


238     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

way  he  voted.  An  indication  of  Huncote's  views, 
Young  Liberal  Socialism  brand,  eased  things  a  little  as 
it  enabled  Mr.  Groby  to  wax  sanguinary  about  that  gin- 
ger-ale lot.  Politics,  Huncote  thought,  simplified  mat- 
ters, for  however  different  men  might  be  they  would,  he 
supposed,  always  discover  invigorating  hatreds.  Then 
he  looked  at  the  dirty  saucepans  on  the  table  and  for  a 
second  wondered  whether  he  could  go  on  with  this.  But 
Sue  was  there,  and  she  was  so  happy,  so  embarrassed,  so 
afraid,  so  anxious  all  should  go  well,  and  so  proud  of 
him. 

She  left  him  for  a  moment  to  put  on  her  hat,  and  he 
stayed  alone  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Groby  and  Muriel. 
Muriel  was  being  condescending  and  worldly :  Did  he 
not  think  the  hobble  skirt  unbecoming?  (while  keep- 
ing open  an  anxious  ear  for  the  strains  outside  of  "  Who 
Were  You  With  Last  Night? ").  Huncote  felt  like  a 
cat  on  a  wardrobe  in  a  room  with  several  dogs,  wonder- 
ing what  will  happen  when  it  comes  down.  But  as  Sue 
came  in  her  eyes  sought  his  and  not  those  of  anybody 
else.  They  were  soft,  half -ashamed,  and  they  held  that 
humid  glow  which  he  felt  was  there  only  for  him.  He 
knew  that  his  smile  answered  her,  paid  tribute  to  her 
loveliness,  her  innocence,  to  the  dream  of  an  unborn 
day.  They  went  silent  in  the  street,  and  he  thought 
her  beautiful.  Her  clothes  were  appalling.  She  was 
wearing  her  best  summer  dress :  light  pink,  touched  up 
with  light  green ;  there  were  bows  on  her  shoulders,  and 
frills  round  her  wrists,  irrelevant  knobs  and  strips  of 
lace  about  her  hips,  bars  of  insertion  on  her  breast; 
every  pure  line  of  body  and  limb  she  spoiled  and  broke. 
And  her  gloves,  dark  brown  kid,  must  have  been  drawn 
on  with  a  buttonhook.  Only  the  Providence  of  Lovers, 
that  is  also  the  Providence  of  Fools,  saved  Huncote 
from  observing  that  skirt  and  petticoat  were  too  long 
behind  and  too  short  in  front,  that  there  were  dreadful 
bunchings  of  stuff,  knots  of  laces  all  over  the  ill-fitting 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES      239 

stays  that  made  a  horizontal  line  at  the  back  under  the 
young  shoulders.  For  he  loved  her  and  looked  only 
into  her  eyes,  content  to  read  there  the  shy  message  of 
their  welcome.  He  was  the  victim  of  a  tragedy:  to  be 
blind  when  loving  for  the  first  time,  a  preparation  to 
having  sight  and  loving  no  more. 

They  sat  in  a  perfect  circle  in  Mrs.  Huncote's  draw- 
ing-room, Sue  so  anxious  that  she  found  herself  staring 
in  turn  at  Mrs.  Huncote,  at  Elspeth,  at  Flora ;  whenever 
she  caught  herself  at  it  she  turned  away  quickly,  nerv- 
ously crossing  and  recrossing  her  feet,  looking  with 
amazement  and  disquiet  at  the  Sevres  clock,  the  assegais 
upon  the  wall,  the  many  books  lying  about  which  she 
had  never  seen  before  outside  a  bookseller's  window. 
It  was  not  going  too  badly.  They  talked  about  the  heat 
at  first,  and  how  trying  it  was.  Mrs.  Huncote  drew 
from  Sue  that  it  was  nice  being  in  the  country  after 
St.  Panwich.  This  led  to  the  merits  of  St.  Olaves,  and 
Mrs.  Huncote  became  topographic.  Elspeth  said  not  a 
word.  She  maintained  a  protesting  and  inspectorial 
air.  Flora,  after  trying  very  hard  not  to  laugh,  let 
herself  go  and  laughed  at  everything.  She  was  easier. 

"  Oh,  you'll  like  it  here,"  she  said,  "  when  you  see  a 
little  of  the  country.  There's  the  Char, —  you  must 
have  seen  it  from  the  train." 

"  Yes,  Sue,"  said  Huncote,  "  that's  the  river ;  I 
showed  it  you,  you  know."  He  tried  to  be  easy.  "  I'll 
have  to  teach  you  to  fish." 

Mrs.  Huncote  raised  her  eyebrows,  but  Flora  gal- 
lantly helped. 

"Oh,  Mother,  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say; 
you're  going  to  say  fishing's  cruel." 

"  Not  with  nets,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote. 

Mrs.  Huncote  was  chipped  as  to  her  humanitarianism 
tempered  by  a  liking  for  trout.  During  the  chipping 
Sue  remained  uneasy,  playing  with  her  fingers.  It  was 
all  very  wonderful,  she  thought,  this  talk  about  trout, 


240     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

though  she  did  not  understand  what  Roger  was  saying 
about  a  cast,  and  what  could  have  happened  to  the  back 
of  Flora's  neck  when  Roger  was  trying  for  an  eddy,  or 
a  neddy,  or  something.  Then  she  felt  she  must  say 
something.  "  Nice  little  fish.  There's  a  fishmonger 
in  the  High  Street  has  a  whole  lot  of  them  in  a  tank,  all 
alive.  They  fry,  don't  they  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote,  "  but  I 
should  say  they  would  fry." 

There  was  a  pause  and  Elspeth  said,  with  a  snarl : 

"  We'd  better  ask  cook." 

Huncote  hated  Elspeth  just  then;  Flora  who,  with 
all  her  mischievousness,  had  some  tact,  suggested  they 
should  go  into  the  garden.  They  did  not  go  at  once, 
for  the  journey  still  had  to  be  discussed,  and  Flora  had 
to  argue  with  her  brother  about  through  trains.  But  at 
last  they  reached  the  garden,  all  except  Elspeth,  who  had 
something  to  do  in  the  town.  That  made  things  easier ; 
persuaded  by  Huncote,  Sue  took  off  her  hat.  He  felt 
that  it  would  be  better  if  she  took  off  that  hat,  for  it  had 
sage-green  ribbons  which  clashed  with  the  lettuce  green 
of  her  frock.  He  was  right,  for  as  soon  as  he  had  done 
so  Mrs.  Huncote  laid  upon  her  a  long  observant  gaze. 

Yes,  she  was  pretty ;  she  was  more  than  pretty.  They 
made  a  charming  picture,  Mrs.  Huncote  thought,  those 
two,  Flora  with  her  delicate  skin  of  white  and  rose,  her 
laughing  grey  eyes,  and  Sue,  sombre  and  brooding  under 
her  heavy  black  locks.  It  was  extraordinary.  Could 
it  be  made  just  possible  ?  Huncote  was  talking  to  her 
but  she  did  not  listen;  she  was  thinking  of  a  parlour- 
maid she  once  had  who,  after  a  few  years,  developed  a 
strange  artistic  taste  in  the  arrangement  of  flowers,  who 
kept  her  hands  so  nicely  too,  no  one  knew  how.  She 
sighed. 

"  Why  do  you  sigh,  Mother  ?  "  asked  Huncote. 

She  looked  at  him,  smiling  a  little;  the  others  were 
out  of  earshot. 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     241 

"  How  can  you  ask  ?  This  —  it's  not  exactly  what  I 
wanted,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  like  her  ?  "  he  asked  urgently. 

"  I  can  hardly  .  .  .  It's  too  early  to  say  .  .  .  She's 
very  pretty." 

"  Yes,"  said  Huncote. 

And  together  for  a  moment  they  looked  at  Flora  and 
Sue.  Flora  was  talking  and  laughing,  and  Sue  stood 
listening  with  a  little  smile  while  she  played  with  the 
hectic  bells  of  a  great  fuchsia  bush.  She  did  not  know 
what  she  was  doing,  and  with  her  hand  outstretched, 
crushing  a  little  between  her  brown  fingers  the  passion- 
ate bloom,  she  looked  small  and  desolate,  as  if  appeal- 
ing. A  heavy  shadow  fell  from  a  tree  upon  her  face, 
made  her  all  dark  and  secret,  loaded  with  mystery  the 
pathos  of  her  eyes. 

As  if  by  agreement  Mrs.  Huncote  took  her  apart. 
They  went  together  along  the  path  to  the  wall  upon 
which,  exquisitely  spread,  were  the  young  peaches  begin- 
ning to  blush.  At  first  Mrs.  Huncote  talked  alone: 
Did  Sue  like  her  work?  What  sort  of  life  had  she? 
Had  she  any  brothers  and  sisters  ?  To  which  Sue  an- 
swered "  Yes  "  and  "  No."  It  was  not  so  bad  now,  she 
thought:  in  the  drawing-room  she  had  wanted  to  say, 
"  Yes,  mum,"  but  it  was  not  so  here.  She  looked  more 
confidently  at  this  nice  old  lady:  pretty  Mrs.  Huncote 
seemed  very  old  to  a  young  girl  accustomed  to  seeing 
women  old  at  thirty.  It  helped  her  that  Mrs.  Hun- 
cote should  be  old,  and,  little  by  little,  she  confided  in 
her. 

"  Have  you  known  my  son  long  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Hun- 
cote. 

"  ~No,  not  exactly  long,"  said  Sue,  blushing.  "  On 
and  off  for  eight  or  nine  months,  but  it  was  only  lately 
that  he  .  .  ."  She  grew  dumb. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote  encouragingly,  "  that  you 
grew  fond  of  each  other." 


242     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Sue  made  a  great  effort  and  dug  her  toe  into  the 
gravel,  but  could  only  get  out  a  stifled  "  Yes." 

Then  Mrs.  Huncote  said : 

"  He  seems  very  fond  of  you." 

After  a  while  Sue,  who  seemed  to  have  been  thinking, 
said: 

"  Who'd  have  thought  it?" 

And  strangely  enough  Mrs.  Huncote  was  not  offended, 
for  Sue  seemed  so  sincere,  so  overcome.  That  helped 
her  and  Mrs.  Huncote  said : 

"  It's  no  use  saying  things  like  that  —  Sue ;  it  just 
happens,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Sue  did  not  reply.  It  was  not  only 
that  Mrs.  Huncote  had  called  her  by  her  name,  but  the 
sudden  softening  of  the  tone  moved  her.  She  felt 
warmed,  accepted,  and,  without  any  artfulness,  she  in- 
creased her  advantage.  With  clasped  hands  she  turned 
to  the  mother  and  murmured  thickly: 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Huncote,  it's  like  a  dream.  I  never 
thought  of  anybody  like  him.  He's  like  —  well,  I  don't 
know,  only  it  always  makes  me  feel  not  good  enough. 
I  used  to  think  a  lot  of  myself,  you  know,  but  that's  all 
over."  Mrs.  Huncote  smiled.  "  You  needn't  smile, 
it's  quite  true.  He's  —  he  looks  like  one  of  those  men 
in  armour  in  the  pictures.  And  when  he  talks  it  makes 
me  think  of  .  .  ." 

"Of  what?" 

"  Oh,  silly  things.     Birds." 

"  Foolish  child !  "  said  Mrs.  Huncote. 

But  she  was  moved,  and  it  almost  hurt  her.  She  had 
a  fleeting  memory  of  the  dead  colonel,  of  the  first  time 
they  danced  at  the  hunt  ball,  thirty  years  before.  He 
had  said  something  so  idiotic  and  delightful,  made  her 
go  out  with  him  into  the  grounds  of  the  Assembly  Room 
at  Dorchester.  She  remembered :  '"  Come  into  the 
garden  and  be  the  nightingale."  She  pulled  herself  up. 
JSTow !  No  sentiment !  But  she  looked  at  Sue,  who  was 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     243 

staring  at  the  peaches  with  her  mouth  fallen  open,  a  lit- 
tle wistful,  as  if  she  asked  for  kindness  as  well  as  for 
love. 

"  Foolish  child !  "  she  said  again.  "  I  envy  you," 
and  slipped  her  hand  along  the  girl's  arm. 

Life's  calculated  artistry  piled  bathos  on  pathos. 
There  was  tea  and  difficulty  with  the  thin  bread-and- 
butter,  and  there  was  Flora,  anxious  to  put  Sue  at  her 
ease  by  professing  a  delight  in  pink  roses  for  hats.  A 
little  strain  came  again,  for  Huncote  did  not  know  what 
his  mother  had  said,  and  he  was  thinking  of  the  Grobys. 

He  was  still  thinking  of  the  Grobys  when  they  got 
into  the  train,  he  and  his  silent  girl.  Six  o'clock:  per- 
haps Mr.  Groby  was  tight.  Again  he  wondered  whether 
he  could  go  on :  but  they  had  a  carriage  to  themselves, 
and  as  soon  as  the  train  started  Sue  flung  herself  into 
his  arms.  "  We're  alone,"  she  whispered. 

Then  he  understood.  As  he  held  her  close-folded  he 
knew  that  he  was  alone  in  a  hostile  world  with  the  only 
creature  who  really  loved  him,  that  is,  who  loved  him 
without  understanding  him.  It  was  wonderful  to  be 
taken  like  that ;  she  sheltered  him  from  the  world :  for  a 
moment  she  made  the  world,  she  was  all  his.  He  had  a 
vision  of  her  as  one  who  had  long  been  in  the  making 
for  him;  she  was  an  angel,  still  and  dark,  looking  at 
him  from  under  her  brows  and  smiling.  As  he  felt  her 
in  his  arms,  quiescent,  every  fibre  of  her  body  told  him : 
"  I  am  yours,  and  you  are  mine,  and  I  love  you.  I  was 
parted  from  you  by  the  unknown  past,  and  yet  I  was 
always  with  you.  Come  to  me,  and  you  shall  have  all 
of  me  that  you  want, —  body,  understanding,  simplicity ; 
you  shall  be  my  counsel  and  my  child,  my  protector  and 
my  charge;  you  shall  be  my  leader  and  my  playmate, 
and  suffer  with  me,  and  laugh  with  me,  and  weep  with 
me,  for  you  are  all  mine,  my  heart." 

They  parted  in  Paradise  Row.  He  had  kissed  her 
much,  and  yet  he  wanted  again  to  do  so :  the  custom  of 


244     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

the  place  allowed  it,  so  securely  she  raised  her  lips  to 
his.     He  felt  degraded  and  delighted  as,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  he  kissed  a  woman  in  the  street. 
She  smiled  darkly.     "  Ta-ta,  be  good,"  she  said. 


He  was  excited  and  he  feared  the  hurrying  on  of 
gladness  and  of  doom.  He  wanted  her :  yes,  he  knew 
that;  he  wanted  her  not  only  as  a  woman  because  she 
was  beautiful,  but  he  wanted  her  presence,  the  conscious- 
ness of  her.  He  liked  to  see  her  move,  to  hear  her  voice, 
the  low  voice  that  was  so  clear  when  she  laughed.  He 
talked  to  her  a  great  deal  and  asked  her  questions  just 
to  hear  that  voice.  Besides,  they  had  much  to  talk  of. 
There  was  quite  a  long  argument  as  to  the  date  of  the 
marriage  which  was  fixed  for  the  first  week  in  October. 
When  he  asked  her  to  "  name  the  day  ",  she  said : 

"  Oh,  Roger !  Isn't  it  a  bit  early  ?  Why,  we've  only 
just  got  engaged." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you're  going  to  marry  me,  aren't 
you  ? " 

"Yes,  but  .  .  ." 

He  realised ;  he  remembered  the  long  engagements  in 
her  class. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  "  we  can  put  it  off  a  little ;  what 
about  this  day  five  years  ?  " 

"  Five  years  's  rather  long,"  said  Sue,  quite  serious. 

He  laughed.  "  But  don't  you  understand,  Sue,  that 
I'm  not  going  to  wait  for  you  for  five  years !  " 

"  Don't  think  it  worth  it,  is  that  it  ?  "  asked  Sue. 

"  Don't  be  silly.  I'm  not  going  to  wait  for  you  five 
years  or  five  months." 

"  Well,  it  ought  to  be  a  year,  don't  you  think  ?  Quite 
a  year  ? " 

He  grew  impatient.  "  But,  Sue,  you  don't  under- 
stand ;  people  only  wait  because  they  can't  afford  to  get 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     245 

married.  They'd  like  to  get  married  at  once.  At  least, 
I  expect  so." 

Sue  did  not  understand ;  all  she  knew  was  that  every 
one  of  her  married  friends  had  waited  anything  be- 
tween one  year  and  five  years,  except  one  who  waited 
ten,  and  there  you  are.  But  Roger  too  did  not  under- 
stand ;  he  did  not  know  that  girls  such  as  Sue  fear  mar- 
riage because  marriage  does  not  emancipate  as  it  does 
in  the  bourgeoisie;  because  marriage  means  that  the 
self-supporting  girl  abandons  the  freedom  of  her  work 
and  possibly  a  good  wage  for  uncertain  dependence  upon 
a  man,  a  man  who  may  become  like  other  men,  rather 
drunken  and  sometimes  brutal. 

The  deadlock  was  ended  by  violence:  Roger  threat- 
ened to  buy  a  special  license  and  to  marry  her  that  week. 
Terrified  and  delighted,  she  had  to  give  in  when  she 
heard  that  a  special  license  cost  thirty  pounds;  that 
would  be  too  dreadful,  so  they  would  be  married  early 
in  October. 

YI 

She  said :  "  Won't  you  give  me  a  little  photo  of 
yourself  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will." 

"  Quite  a  little  one  ?     Big  as  a  shilling  ?  " 

"  But  why  only  as  big  as  a  shilling  ?  " 

"  To  put  in  a  locket  to  wear  round  my  neck."  She 
blushed. 

He  laughed.  No,  she  should  have  a  big  one.  He 
didn't  want  her  to  wear  his  photo  like  that.  He  did  not 
want  her  to  look  like  —  well,  like  what  she  was.  But 
it  was  early  and  he  was  charmed. 

VII 

There  was  a  house  to  find,  there  were  clothes  to  buy, 
there  was  clergyman  and  choir  to  think  of.  Decisions 


246     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

must  be  taken  as  to  where  the  reception  should  be  held, 
and  the  honeymoon  must  be  thought  of.  But  Huncote 
thought  of  other  things  too,  of  trifles  in  her  behaviour 
and  clothing  which  annoyed  him  a  very  little,  even  in 
those  moments  when  he  loved  her.  He  began  to  think 
of  it  the  day  he  broke  her  necklace. 

It  was  evening  as  he  saw  her  home.  They  were  in 
sportive  mood,  and  she  said  he  had  kissed  her  enough. 
He  struggled  with  her,  she  breathless  and  hiding  her 
face  with  her  hands.  As  he  tore  her  hands  away,  mas- 
terful and  tender,  he  caught  a  finger  in  the  necklace; 
the  thread  broke,  and  the  sham  pearls  fell  all  over  the 
pavement  where  in  their  excitement  they  did  not  notice 
them  until  they  had  trampled  half  of  them  into  pow- 
der. 

"  Oh,  my  pearls ! "  Sue  cried.  Then  she  looked  as 
if  about  to  weep. 

"  Never  mind,  sweetheart,  I'll  give  you  another 
necklace  to-morrow." 

"  Will  you  really  ? "  She  smiled,  forgetting  the 
past  and  thinking  only  of  to-morrow,  for  she  loved  him. 

But  when  it  came  to  buying  the  necklace,  he  hesi- 
tated. He  had  the  prejudice  of  his  education  against 
sham  jewellery  of  any  kind  —  and  so  many  girls  at  the 
Settlement  wore  sham  pearls.  No,  he  could  not  buy 
those.  He  thought  of  something  more  overwhelming, 
real  pearls.  Only  he  was  not  sure  that  Sue  would  like 
them  as  well  as  the  sham,  for  they  would  be  small.  Ac- 
cidentally he  discovered  the  shop  in  Oxford  Street 
where  they  sell  queer,  cheap  jewellery  from  Italy  or  the 
East.  He  was  proud  when  he  brought  Sue  her  neck- 
lace ;  it  was  very  pretty,  made  of  gilt  wood  on  an  Italian 
model,  of  carved,  wooden  spheres,  separated  by  blue 
stones  decorated  with  gold  designs.  He  clasped  it 
round  her  neck,  and  thought  she  looked  barbaric.  But 
she  fingered  the  pendant  and  seemed  disconsolate. 

"  Don't  you  like  it  ?  "  he  asked. 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     247 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  it's  quaint."  She  pouted  a  little. 
"  Thought  you  said  you'd  get  me  some  pearls." 

"  Oh !  "  he  cried.  "  Don't  you  see  it's  beautiful  ? 
that  it  isn't  like  everybody's  ?  I  assure  you  it's  a  beau- 
tiful thing." 

"  It  is  quaint,"  she  said  ungraciously. 

He  knew  there  was  something  a  little  wrong;  orna- 
ments, clothes,  he  didn't  quite  know  what ;  he  knew  too 
little  of  women  to  say.  He  wished  some  woman,  some- 
body like  Flora,  a  woman  who  knew,  would  help  her. 
But  he  shrank  from  contact  between  his  sister  and  his 
bride.  Suddenly  he  thought  of  Theresa. 

It  was  a  queer  interview.  Theresa,  of  course,  knew, 
and  she  let  him  go  on  to  the  end,  but  he  found  it  diffi- 
cult. 

"  You  see  what  I  mean,"  he  said,  at  length.  "  You 
know  how  sweet  she  is;  I  know  you  like  her.  Only, 
having  been  brought  up  like  that,  it's  so  difficult." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  understand.  Of  course  I'll 
help  you."  And  almost  added :  "  You  child ! " 
"  Tell  her  to  come  and  see  me,  or  rather  I'll  take  her 
out  myself;  it'll  be  all  right."  She  smiled:  "She 
shall  be  a  regular  fashion  plate !  Will  that  satisfy  you  ? 
She  shall  have  coats  and  skirts  like  everybody,  and  she 
shall  not  wear  any  but  handsewn  blouses;  she'll  be  so 
like  everybody  that  you  won't  be  able  to  tell  her !  Will 
that  satisfy  you  ?  She  shan't  only  be  good  enough  for 
you,  but  she  shall  look  it !  " 

There  had  been  in  the  words  "  good  enough  for  you  " 
an  intonation  rather  peculiar.  For  a  moment  Roger 
felt  awkward,  but  he  was  in  no  mood  for  introspection ; 
so  he  told  himself  he  was  only  thinking  what  a  good 
friend  Theresa  was.  As  he  went  he  thanked  her  again. 
He  felt  impulsive. 

"You're  the  best  of  friends."  Then,  before  she 
could  elude  him,  he  kissed  her  softly  on  the  cheek. 

Theresa    was    alone.     Evening    was    coming.     She 


248     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  over  the  low  houses 
opposite,  over  the  canal,  so  dull,  like  lead,  save  where 
the  setting  sun  touched  it.  It  was  not  so  warm  now, 
and  soon  it  would  be  dusk.  She  thought  of  the  night, 
the  night  that  would  be  cold  after  the  heat  of  the  day. 
She  did  not  know  just  then  exactly  what  she  felt.  She 
could  not  tell  herself  that  she  was  losing  the  man  she 
wanted;  all  she  knew,  as  the  sun  dipped  below  the 
house,  was  the  fading  of  its  glory  heralded  an  enclosing 
night.  A  greyness  fell  over  the  sky  and  over  something 
within  her  that  felt  sick  with  weakness. 

VIII 

"  I  say !  "  said  Sue.  "  I've  been  showing  that  neck- 
lace of  yours  to  a  girl.  She  was  gone  on  it" 

"  Oh  ? " 

"  And  I've  sort  of  taken  to  it  too."  She  fingered  the 
pendant.  "  It's  lovely,  ain't  it  ?  They  can't  do  that 
sort  of  work  in  England." 

His  emotion  was  both  suave  and  deep.  So  she  had 
learnt !  She  could  understand  the  beautiful,  could  see 
quickly !  One  only  had  to  show  it  to  her,  and  she  for- 
got all  vulgar  things.  He  held  her  close.  Oh! 
How  wonderful  she  could  be !  The  vision  of  a  Sue 
renewed  and  made  peerless  which  he  had  seen  after  the 
night  by  the  river  formed  again.  It  intoxicated  him. 
It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she  had  followed  where  an- 
other girl  led. 

IX 

They  were  grouped  in  the  drawing-room,  about  thirty 
people.  A  quiet  little  party,  for  Mrs.  Huncote  had 
done  what  she  could.  There  had  been  wrangles  because 
Flora  wanted  silver-edged  invitations;  more  wrangles 
because  Huncote  objected  to  wedding  presents.  In 
fact,  for  a  while,  he  conducted  a  single-handed  battle 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     249 

against  his  own  family  and  the  Grobys  too,  because  he 
wanted  quietly  to  go  round  to  the  registrar's  with  Sue 
and  two  witnesses  at  half  a  crown  a  head.  Mrs.  Hun- 
cote  might  have  given  way  thankfully,  only  Mrs.  Groby, 
remembering  her  aunt  who  had  left  all  that  money  to  the 
blacks  in  Africa,  was  determined  to  get  value  for  the 
lost  inheritance  out  of  the  Church.  And  Sue  did  not 
help  much.  When  Huncote  came  to  her  and  offered  to 
elope  to  the  registrar's  she  looked  at  him  half-fright- 
ened. ,  . 

"  Oh !  "  she  said.  "  I  shouldn't  feel  properly  mar- 
ried!" 

He  pressed  her.  She  grew  mutinous  and  for  a  mo- 
ment quite  ugly  with  a  dark  obstinate  face. 

"  All  my  friends  been  to  the  church,"  she  said  curtly. 

He  grew  angry,  she  wept.  Then  they  kissed,  and  he 
felt  a  brute.  Later  he  changed  his  mind  and  there 
were  more  quarrels ;  there  was  even  a  quarrel  at  Para- 
dise Row  in  presence  of  the  amalgamated  Grobys. 
Muriel  came  out  strong. 

"  A  church,"  she  declared,  "  is  so  much  more  lady- 
like." 

Perce  went  round  to  Huncote  on  the  sly  and  offered 
to  kidnap  Sue  for  him  for  a  tanner.  But  Huncote 
thought  of  Mrs.  Ramsey  and  the  white  slave  traffic,  and 
refused. 

All  might  have  been  well  and  the  wedding  have  taken 
place  at  All  Souls  St.  Panwich,  but  Huncote,  exasper- 
ated by  this  battering  on  all  sides,  continually  entangled 
in  theological  arguments  with  Mrs.  Groby  who  wanted 
to  serve  the  Church  out,  with  Mrs.  Huncote  who  did  not 
believe  in  it,  but  knew  that  everybody  who  was  any- 
body got  married  in  church  (unless  they  were  intellec- 
tual and  went  in  for  free  love),  was  brought  to  such  a 
pitch  of  exasperation  by  discovering  a  letter  from  the 
C.  O.  S.  to  Elspeth  who  as  a  sort  of  last  hope  had  been 
enquiring  whether  there  was  anything  against  the 


250     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Grobys,  that  he  suddenly  declared  he  would  have  a  rag- 
ing and  tearing  wedding,  and  at  St.  Olaves.  The  sil- 
ver-edged invitation  cards  were  printed;  they  would 
have  been  sent  if  Elspeth  had  not  quietly  got  hold  of 
the  bundle,  destroyed  most  of  them,  and  told  him  only 
too  late.  Huncote  wrote  to  the  Dean,  asking  him  to 
officiate  in  person,  but  was  fortunately  foiled  by  a  previ- 
ous engagement  of  the  prelate. 

He  was  furious  and  resolute  and,  outwitting  his  fam- 
ily, on  the  morning  of  the  wedding  he  disembarked  a 
blue  Hungarian  band  and  six  dozen  of  champagne. 
He  was  very  unhappy  in  those  days  and  yet  delighted. 
He  was  almost  forgetting  Sue  and  the  gaining  of  his  de- 
sire, for  he  saw  very  little  of  her  now,  with  Theresa 
rushing  her  around  the  town  to  dressmakers,  and  mil- 
liners, and  bootmakers,  in  a  triumphant  and  reforming 
progress  which  left  behind  it  the  shattered  remains  of 
machine-made  blouses  and  three-and-elevenpenny  stays. 
Sue  became  a  phantom  .  .  .  Sue  was  manicured  .  .  . 

So  Huncote  flung  himself  upon  that  wedding  with  the 
determination  that  might  have  inspired  him  had  he 
sworn  to  drown  a  greedy  cat  in  cream.  He  happened 
to  read  The  Blue  Lagoon  in  those  days  and  thought 
they  did  these  things  better  in  Polynesia.  But  still 
among  this  welter  of  contending  wills,  of  reluctances,  of 
clamorous  prejudices,  of  social  assumptions,  of  abom- 
inable pryings  into  the  most  exquisite  things,  the  sol- 
emn institution  of  marriage  rumbled  on,  caring  very 
little  in  its  eternal  course  what  lay  under  its  jugger- 
naut wheels.  Sue  might  weep,  but  banns  were  called. 

There  was  quite  a  little  crowd  that  soft  October  day, 
with  the  hollyhocks  blowsy  and  dusty,  and  the  chrys- 
anthemums beginning  to  mourn  the  dead  summer. 
The  two  parties  had  clotted  rather;  there  was  a  proud 
young  group  made  up  of  Flora,  Peter,  in  a  highly 
brushed  condition,  Cuthbert  and  Sawbones  Junior  to 
represent  her  glamorous  past.  There  was  a  minor 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     251 

canon  and  his  wife  who  looked  at  everybody  as  if  they 
saw  them  through  lorgnettes;  the  doctor  lurked  behind 
a  big  black  moustache  out  of  which  he  now  and  then 
burst  like  a  sharpshooter,  inadequately  restrained  by 
a  precise  little  wife  who  might  have  been  made  of 
chilled  steel  painted  pink,  so  clean  were  her  lines. 
There  were  locals  too,  some  of  the  locals  whose  invita- 
tions Elspeth  had  not  been  able  to  stop.  And  some 
relatives:  Mrs.  Huncote's  mother,  old  Mrs.  Farnell, 
with  exquisite  white  curls  and  a  trembling  bonnet  on 
the  back  of  her  head.  Old  Mrs.  Farnell  was  to  be  very 
helpful  by  and  by,  for  her  bonnet  and  its  angle  served 
as  a  link  between  her  and  Mrs.  Groby  who,  unfortu- 
nately, had  added  to  her  own  bonnet  velvet  ribbon  of 
that  peculiar  pale  crimson  which  recalls  raspberry  fool. 
There  were  more  Farnells  too,  Rear  Admiral  Farnell, 
Mrs.  Huncote's  brother,  with  his  wife, —  he  inclined  to 
be  jovial  and  she  to  consider  the  crowd  with  the  toler- 
ance that  fills  a  naval  wife  in  non-service  circles.  On 
the  Huncote  side  was  only  Miss  Huncote,  the  maiden 
aunt,  accompanied  by  her  transformation.  Later  she 
had  a  conversation  with  Mr.  Groby,  which  mystified 
her  very  much  because  he  continually  alluded  to  the 
yard.  She  first  thought  he  was  an  ostler  and,  when 
seeking  information,  was  told  by  the  doctor  that  he 
meant  the  boneyard,  which  was  not  enlightening.  And 
there  was  Perce  who  wondered  when  the  eating  would 
start.  Whenever  he  asked  Muriel  that  question  he  was 
heavily  snubbed  and  told  that  eating  was  not  gentle- 
manly. But  Perce,  whose  breakfast  had  been  forgotten 
in  the  morning  hurry,  was  possessed,  and  the  results 
threatened  to  be  serious.  Grabbing  was  in  Perce's 
mind.  There  was  Grandpa  Challow,  brought  from 
Sussex  by  the  Grobys.  He  was  a  delightful  old  man, 
nearly  eighty.  Mrs.  Huncote  fell  in  love  with  him 
when  he  said : 

"  I'm  unaccountable  glad  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Hun- 


252     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

cote;  he's  a  nice  boy.  He's  the  nicest  boy  I  seen  for 
a  long  time." 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  him,"  she  said. 

"  I  do,  surely." 

Outside  in  the  garden,  unrestrained,  the  band  was 
violently  banding.  Huncote,  for  a  moment  undis- 
turbed, sat  at  the  window  staring  out.  He  had  escaped 
the  Farnell  country  cousins  in  their  country  clothes, 
and  with  a  sort  of  savage  delight  noted  that  they  wore 
bows  upon  their  shoulders:  his  wife  knew  better  than 
that  by  now,  so  he  scored  off  the  Wiltshire  end  of  the 
family.  There  was  a  buzz  of  talk  behind  him  and 
some  laughter.  He  felt  depressed.  He  was  glad  be- 
hind his  depression,  for  it  was  nearly  over,  and  he  had 
had  a  glimpse  of  Sue  just  long  enough  for  her  to  smile. 
But  it  had  all  been  so  complicated  and  hard,  and  he  felt 
tired.  In  front  of  him,  between  two  faded  hollyhock 
stems,  a  great  autumn  spider  sat  in  its  web;  it  was 
beautiful  and  sinister,  with  a  yellow  cross  upon  its 
back,  motionless  as  if  from  the  moist  dead  leaves  there 
came  already  a  breath  of  murderous  winter. 

He  alighted  from  the  carriage,  helped  out  Mrs.  Groby 
and  his  mother.  Mrs.  Groby  fell.  It  seemed  very 
long,  the  wait  near  the  altar,  with  Sue  missing.  He 
wondered  why  the  bridegroom  mattered  so  little  in  a 
wedding,  and  why  everybody  was  anxious  about  the 
bride.  The  crowd  seemed  very  small  in  the  church, 
and  the  bride's  side  would  have  been  empty  had  not 
some  of  the  Huncotes  filled  it  up.  Mrs.  Groby  would 
have  asked  a  few  friends  if  the  wedding  had  happened 
in  St.  Panwich,  but  she  had  not  the  courage  to  bring 
them  to  St.  Olaves.  She  did  not  mind.  She  had  been 
torn  between  gentility  and  auld  lang  syne;  gentility 
won.  There  was  a  little  hush,  some  craning  forward 
of  heads,  a  noise  as  everybody  turned  from  the  altar  to 
watch  the  coming  of  the  bride  with  her  father  who  was 
to  give  her  away.  Huncote  grew  conscious  of  some- 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     253 

thing  in  white,  large  and  floriferous,  which  followed 
Sue,  Ada  Nuttall,  of  course,  and  of  Churton  at  his  side 
begging  him  to  be  steady  .  .  . 

Who  was  this  stranger  girl  he  was  to  wed?  She 
seemed  so  different  in  the  gown  of  white  chiffon.  It 
made  her  look  so  dark ;  her  eyes  were  downcast  and  she 
seemed  stern;  her  mouth  was  set  and  its  lovely  curves 
gone ;  even  her  hair  looked  strange ;  he  wondered  where 
the  beautiful  curls  had  gone.  He  did  not  know  that 
Theresa's  battle  had  not  been  entirely  won  and  that,  in 
spite  of  orders,  Sue  had  supplemented  the  natural  curl 
by  putting  her  hair  in  papers  the  night  before:  this 
made  a  curious  combination  with  the  wave  the  hair- 
dresser had  given  it  that  morning  .  .  . 

And  now  they  were  side  by  side,  kneeling.  For  a 
moment  Huncote  felt  religious.  Then  he  noticed  the 
vicar's  boots !  His  elbow  touched  Sue's,  and  he  pressed 
it  as  if  to  reassure  her,  really  to  reassure  himself,  for 
he  did  not  know  what  awful  thoughts  had  stolen  the 
curves  from  her  mouth, —  that  she  was  hot  all  over  as 
she  waited  for  the  moment  when  Bert  Caldwell  would, 
as  in  the  story  "  True  Till  Death  ",  step  out  from  be- 
hind a  pillar  and  say :  "  I  forbid  the  banns !  This 
woman  who  stands  here  is  my  affianced  wife !  " 

But  nothing  happened.  As  she  said  "  I  will "  she 
thought  of  Bert  without  a  qualm,  for  she  loved  this  man, 
this  strange  shining  creature  by  her  side.  Only  she 
wondered  whether  Bert  would  go  to  Australia.  Then 
again  she  said :  "  I  will."  And  as  Huncote  placed 
the  ring  upon  her  finger  she  squeezed  his  hand  hard  as 
if  begging  him  to  hold  it  so  that  none  might  hurt 
her  .  .  . 

It  was  very  different  after,  as  they  stood  side  by  side 
in  the  drawing-room  being  congratulated.  For  Sue 
saw  everything  with  relief  rather  than  triumph,  and  so 
she  was  beautiful.  The  chiffon  fell  softly  from  her 
shoulders,  ample  over  the  arms  to  where  the  long  white 


254     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

gloves  left  bare  the  smooth  skin.  The  white  silk  of 
the  loose-laced  corselet,  the  straight,  soft  folds  of  flimsy 
white  that  fell  from  her  hips  to  her  white-shod  feet,  hid 
little  of  the  graciousness  of  her  lines,  half -virginal,  half- 
mature.  Theresa  must  have  done  something  to  her  hair 
after  the  church,  Mrs.  Huncote  thought,  for  it  looked 
looser,  and  thick  and  dark  against  the  pallor  of  the 
orange-blossom.  The  groups  formed  again.  The 
locals  solidified  around  the  minor  canon  and  his  wife, 
while  Mrs.  Farnell,  conscious  of  the  power  of  the  fif- 
teen-inch naval  guns  and  of  the  traditions  of  Drake, 
formed  a  rival  crowd  mainly  of  relations  who  were 
tending  to  clot.  The  country  cousins,  together  with 
Mrs.  Farnell,  Miss  Huncote,  and  Elspeth,  were  begin- 
ning with  ostentatious  aloofness  to  exchange  the  family 
confidences  and  evil  reports  which  are  suitable  when 
relations  come  together :  the  naval  wife  sat  on  the  quar- 
ter-deck of  the  good  ship  Farnell-Huncote.  Perce 
ate  at  last  as  quickly  as  his  high  collar  would  let  him, 
and  Muriel  fascinatedly  walked  around  and  around  the 
doctor's  wife,  trying  to  find  out  how  she  got  into  her  ap- 
parently seamless  garment.  Huncote,  determined  to 
do  his  duty,  monopolised  Mr.  Groby.  Mr.  Groby  and 
his  family  had  begun  numbly,  staring,  saying  "  Yes, 
Sir  "  and  "  Yes,  Mum,"  though  they  tried  to  keep  it 
down.  The  fashion,  the  munificence  paralysed  them. 
Now  Huncote  regretted  having  ordered  so  much  cham- 
pagne, for  Mr.  Groby  was  becoming  louder  and  louder 
on  the  subject  of  the  Old  Mogul.  "  Never  been  to  the 
Old  Mogul  ?  Why !  Where  was  you  born  ?  The 
times  I  used  to  'ave  there  with  old  Joe  Bates!  They 
don't  know  wat  a  music  'all  is  nowadays."  He  went 
on :  "  They  used  to  call  it  the  Bloodpot,  they  did,  and 
no  wonder.  Why,  I  remember  .  .  ." 

Huncote  tried  to  prevent  him  from  remembering  too 
loud.  But  the  other  Grobys  were  creating  a  small 
scene.  The  two  children  and  their  mother  stood  fasci- 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     255 

nated  before  a  tableload  of  wedding  presents;  Mrs. 
Groby  patted  an  awful  black  marble  clock,  presented 
by  the  country  cousins.  "  My !  "  sbe  said,  "  that's  wot 
I  call  a  clock."  She  stopped  Mrs.  Farnell.  "  It's  the 
dead  spit  of  the  one  as  my  aunt  Elizabeth  used  ter  'ave. 
Wot  d'yer  think  that  corst  ? " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Farnell,  trying 
to  escape. 

'•'  Well,  it's  got  yer  name  on  it,"  said  Mrs.  Groby. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  That's  my  sister-in-law's 
name." 

"Why!  Didn't  yer  talk  it  over?"  asked  Mrs. 
Groby,  laughing.  "  Now  where's  yer  present  ?  Don't 
be  shy." 

Mrs.  Huncote  came  to  the  rescue  in  time  to  prevent 
Perce  decorating  the  silver  salver  with  an  "  H " 
scratched  with  the  carvers. 

"  Won't  you  come  into  the  garden  ?  "  she  asked  Mrs. 
Groby.  "  It's  lovely." 

"  Everything  in  the  garden's  lovely,"  cried  Perce. 

The  country  cousins  came  closer;  Elspeth  hovered. 
Mrs.  Groby  was  heard  to  vow  that  if  anybody'd  given 
her  that  biscuit  box  she'd  pop  it. 

"  Hush !  "  said  Mrs.  Huncote.  "  That's  from  Lady 
Belhus." 

"  'Oo  cares  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Groby,  democratic  and 
slightly  drunk. 

"  Come  with  me,  Mrs.  Groby,"  said  Elspeth.  But 
Mrs.  Groby  turned  on  her.  "  'Go's  arskin'  yer  for  yer 
opinion,  Elspeth  ?  " 

There  was  a  thrill  of  horror,  for  suddenly  the  Grobys 
grew  "  family  like "  and  the  guests  were  greeted  as 
Flora,  Lucy,  anything.  Mrs.  Farnell  and  the  doctor 
intervened,  for  Muriel  had  burst  into  tears  as  gentility 
expired,  while  Perce  had  to  be  operated  on  for  swal- 
lowed fishbone.  At  last  Mrs.  Groby  accepted  tea.  It 
was  very  hot,  so  she  poured  it  into  her  saucer  from 


256     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

which  she  lapped  in  the  intervals  of  huge  bitings  out  of 
a  lump  of  cake. 

"  That  ain't  good  tea  .  .  ."  (lap)  "  I  always  say, 
take  yer  tea  strong  and  labour  in  the  vineyard  of  the 
Lord  .  .  ."  (lap,  squish)  .  .  . 

Perce  joined  his  father,  who  was  consuming  foie 
gras  sandwiches,  three  at  a  time. 

"  That  stuff  ain't  arf  bad,"  he  told  the  Cuthbert- 
Sawbones  Junior  group.  "  'Ave  a  bit,  sonny,"  offer- 
ing the  plate  to  the  highly  brushed  Peter.  "  Don't 
choke  yerself,  Perce.  Yer  enjoying  yer  little  self,  ain't 
yer?" 

"  Not  arf." 

"  I  believe  yer."  He  pointed  a  thumb  at  the  wed- 
ding cake.  "  Just  as  good  as  mother  makes  it,  eh !  " 

Mrs.  Huncote  watched  Mrs.  Farnell's  face  and  be- 
gan uncontrollably  to  laugh.  She  felt  like  weeping 
too.  But  she  was  the  leader,  so  she  must  follow  her 
guests'  desires.  She  broke  up  the  Groby  clot,  and  soon 
Huncote,  who  had  missed  the  scene,  heard  his  mother 
talking  to  Mrs.  Groby.  The  conversation  had  begun 
with  an  interesting  cancer  case,  and  was  proceeding  on- 
wards to  the  condition  of  a  neighbour  whose  nervous 
"  cistern  "  was  completely  wrecked.  Told  in  a  whisper 
to  get  Mr.  Groby  away,  he  managed  to  land  him  on  the 
doctor,  with  a  hint  that  he  needed  looking  after ;  the 
doctor  dosed  him  with  more  champagne.  But  he  could 
not  find  Sue;  she  had  gone  away,  it  seemed,  to  put  on 
her  going-away  dress,  and  so  for  a  moment  he  talked  to 
Grandpa  Challow. 

"  I  never  been  in  London  for  a  long  time,"  said  the 
old  man.  "  No,  not  since  the  Jubilee.  It's  a  long 
time  since  'eighty-seven !  I  was  so  tall  then  surely."  , 

"  Did  you  see  anything  ?  "  asked  Huncote. 

The  old  man  was  not  listening,  he  was  lost  in  memo- 
ries :  "  There  was  the  Queen,  looking  valiant  in  her 
carriage,  and  the  Royal  Sussex  guarding  her  all  the 


TWILIGHT  OF  ST.  OLAVES     257 

way.  I  was  just  about  glad  to  see  her,  such  a  praaper 
lady.  But  the  bees  all  died  that  year,"  he  sighed,  and 
accepted  a  glass  of  champagne. 


As  they  drove  off  Huncote  glimpsed  the  massed 
classes  in  the  portico.  Another  stranger  was  by  his 
side,  now  in  a  pale  grey  travelling  gown,  a  charming 
stranger  who  smiled  and  somehow  was  his.  He  took 
her  hand.  They  were  both  of  them  relieved,  very  shy, 
rather  frightened.  He  looked  into  the  dark  eyes  that 
appealed  only  to  him ;  he  stooped  to  kiss  the  smiling  lips 
and  said : 

"  You  are  beautiful !  " 

"  You  story !  "  she  replied. 

He  laughed;  she  charmed  him;  she  alone  was  real. 
He  drew  down  the  glove  to  kiss  the  strong  arm;  she  put 
her  other  hand  upon  his  neck  and  shyly  stroked  his 
hair.  In  their  own  way  they  were  both  of  them  en- 
trusting their  lives  to  an  unknown,  but  perhaps  benevo- 
lent Providence  .  . 


PART  THE  THIRD 

LEAVES  OF  WILLOW 


A  garden  inclosed  is  my  sister,  my  spouse : 
A  spring  shut  up,  a  fountaine  sealed. 

(The  Song  of  Solomon.) 


CHAPTEE  THE  EIRST 

THE   PYRENEES    AND    PEMBROKE    SQUARE 


ROGER  HTJNCOTE  shifted  upon  his  pillow,  stretched  him- 
self, still  half -asleep.  He  tried  to  untie  his  eyelids  and 
then,  feeling  he  was  still  very  tired,  nestled  closer  against 
Sue,  as  if  in  five  days  he  had  acquired  the  habits  of  mar- 
riage. But  through  the  dimness  which  with  every 
moment  grew  less,  he  was  conscious  of  the  life  surround- 
ing him  and  of  the  last  five  days,  so  hurried,  so  packed 
with  emotion  and  sensation,  hectic  and  exhausting,  hectic 
and  exquisite.  As  consciousness  came  to  him  he  liked 
to  remember  in  half-wakef ulness ;  it  was  like  a  play  for 
him  alone  performed.  From  St.  Olaves  they  had  gone 
to  Dover  and  there  they  stayed  the  night ;  the  next  day 
on  to  Paris,  where  again  they  had  broken  the  journey. 
Paris  had  been  hateful.  The  city  was  wearing  her 
ugly  face  of  wet  days,  when  water  decrepitates  upon  the 
zinc  roofs  and  floods  the  stone  gutters,  when  the  women 
in  their  smart  half -mourning  scurry  like  cats,  and  every- 
thing is  brilliant  with  water,  not  dull  and  muddy  as  in 
London  but  somehow  so  much  wetter.  Paris  had  been 
dreadful;  she  looked  like  a  scarecrow  in  a  dressing- 
jacket  of  crepe  de  chine.  He  remembered  how  wonder- 
ful Sue  thought  it,  how  bravely  she  had  set  out  from  the 
hotel  right  into  the  rain,  until  he  stopped  her  and  made 
her  get  into  a  taxi.  She  had  not  thought  of  a  cab;  it 
shocked  him  a  little,  that,  and  charmed  him.  And  there 
had  been  an  interesting  moment,  when  he  took  her  to  the 
Bon  Marche  to  buy  a  hat.  How  was  he  to  know  where 


262     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

to  buy  women's  hats?  He  remembered  her  shrinking 
from  the  saleswoman. 

Lazily  still,  he  thought  of  their  journey  to  Biarritz, 
so  long  and  yet  so  delightful  because  every  hour  grew 
warmer  and  lighter,  until  suddenly  they  saw  the  sun 
drown  as  a  torch  in  the  blue  sea  beyond  the  basin  of 
Arcachon. 

He  looked  at  her.  She  was  fragile  and  childish  like 
this,  with  her  hair  in  two  thick  black  plaits.  One  lay 
across  her  cheek  and  neck,  and  he  had  to  tell  himself  that 
if  she  opened  her  eyes  they  would  be  astonished  and 
eager,  so  as  not  to  think  of  her  in  her  tragic  darkness  as 
a  Salammbo  in  the  embrace  of  her  python.  She  lay 
upon  her  side,  her  face  turned  towards  him,  her  dark 
mouth  a  little  open,  roscid  lips  pressed  into  the  pillow, 
eyelashes  at  rest  upon  her  cheek.  He  came  closer, 
drawn  by  the  strong  lines  of  the  neck,  of  the  broad 
shoulders  still  beautiful  under  the  shapeless  swaddle  of 
the  blankets.  She  was  delicious  and  she  fired  him,  but 
yet  she  was  strange  where  she  was,  and  he  pitied  her. 
Sue  in  Biarritz !  He  laughed :  what  an  exile !  He  sat, 
still  looking  at  her,  and  very  gently  under  the  bedclothes 
found  her  hand.  In  her  sleep  she  closed  her  fingers 
upon  his.  Sue  in  Biarritz!  He  remembered  the  ex- 
cited discussion  when  he  asked  her  where  she  wanted  to 
spend  the  honeymoon  and  she  answered : 

"  Just  as  you  like ;  I'd  thought  of  Eamsgate. 
Though,"  and  her  eyes  sparkled,  half -wistful,  "  though 
Ada  says  they'll  go  to  Cromer  "when  she  gets  married." 

Mischievously  he  replied :  "  Oh,  I  was  thinking  of 
Japan.  What  d'you  think,  Sue  ?  " 

"  Don't  make  game  of  me,"  said  Sue,  rather  hurt. 

The  relentless  mechanism  of  wealth  had  captured 
Sue,  and  Cromer  was  not  for  her.  She  was  nearly  taken 
to  Japan,  just  for  fun,  and  would  have  been  perhaps  if 
Huncote  had  been  a  good  sailor.  So  she  was  taken  to 
Biarritz  because  it  would  be  warm.  Now  there  was  no 


THE  PYRENEES  263 

end  to  the  cytherean  worlds  to  which  Sue  might  be 
translated, —  first  class  all  the  way!  It  was  terrible; 
probably  she  was  dreaming  of  it,  and  it  was  a  trouble- 
some dream,  for  she  moaned  a  little,  and  her  hand 
struggled  in  that  of  her  husband.  Still  he  thought  of 
those  scenes,  of  her  amazement  mixed  with  fear  when 
she  heard  they  were  to  have  a  month  off.  "  Little  Ish- 
maelite !  "  he  thought.  "  You're  not  alone  now."  And 
bent  down  to  kiss  her  very  softly  upon  the  cheek.  She 
was  waking  and,  feeling  him  close,  slowly  wound  about 
his  neck  a  sleepy  arm.  He  could  not  think,  he  found, 
when  he  held  her  so.  He  could  only  feel,  and  some  of 
his  emotion  was  aesthetic  as  he  saw  her  eyelids  struggle, 
and  waited  a  little  anxiously  for  that  first  look  of  morn- 
ing that  is  surprised,  shrinking,  yet  full  of  anticipation, 
when  beauty  which  in  the  night  has  died  is  born  again 
in  a  new  world.  He  was  thrilled,  for  the  blind  was  up, 
and  the  room  full  of  light.  How  lovely  she  would  look 
in  the  pale  lucence  of  the  Biscayan  air ! 

She  woke.  She  smiled.  Contentedly  she  settled 
closer  in  his  arms.  "  So  happy !  "  she  murmured.  As 
he  pressed  her  to  him,  thrilled  by  the  sweet-scented  soft- 
ness of  her,  she  gave  him  her  lips  like  a  tired  child  that 
seeks  comfort ;  soon, —  and  then  it  was  he  who  was  the 
child, —  she  grasped  him  closer  with  drugged  intensity, 
all  instinctive,  together  greedy  and  generous.  Much 
later,  when  she  let  him  come  into  the  room  whence  she 
had  expelled  him  while  she  dressed,  while  she  put  on  her 
blouse,  he  watched  the  slow  rise  and  fall  of  her  breast, 
wondered  whether  from  that  soft  bosom  he  could  strike 
the  fountain  hippocrene. 


n 


It  was  all  new  and  delightful,  that  first  fortnight,  for 
they  went  hand  in  hand,  twin  explorers,  Sue  to  the 


264     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

discovery  of  foreign  parts,  Roger  to  that  of  Sue's  heart, 
a  land  more  alien  than  he  knew.  They  were  not  active 
at  first,  and  it  seemed  enough  in  the  intervals  of  meals 
(those  semicolons  of  all  holidays)  to  walk  along  the  cliffs 
and  watch  the  sea  breathe,  stopping  sometimes  to  caress 
each  other  when  a  tree  or  a  wall  offered  shelter.  Often, 
quite  unashamed,  they  lay  together  silent  in  the  rough 
grass,  burning  their  faces  with  sunshine  and  kisses. 
Instinctively  Huncote  knew  that  here  Sue  was  at  her 
best,  where  there 'was  nothing  that  connected  with  the 
life  she  had  known,  but  just  sea,  earth,  and  air,  strange 
to  the  slum  child  and  regenerating.  He  did  not  put  it 
to  himself  like  that,  but  he  felt  it  every  time  they  went 
down  to  the  beach  where  Sue  was  shocked  by  the  Paris 
bathing  dresses,  where  she  would  laugh  at  a  policeman  or 
a  chair-ticketeer,  or  allude  to  the  casino  porter  as  "  old 
funny  hat."  Whenever  she  did  that  sort  of  thing  she 
threw  him  a  look  of  apology,  as  if  she  had  broken  a  rule 
and  was  afraid.  For  Sue  in  those  days  was  very  much 
on  her  guard  and,  now  and  then,  when  rarely  she  was 
alone,  she  used  to  work  out  Rules  of  Conduct.  "  I  must 
be  careful.  Mustn't  say  t  didn't  orter '  again.  I  re- 
member as  Miss  Theresa  told  me  .  .  ." 

"  As  "  worried  her,  for  Miss  Theresa  had  also  told  her 
something  about  "  as."  She  little  knew  how  blessed  she 
was  in  the  possession  of  correct  "  h's  ",  for  when  people 
mismanaged  their  "  h's  "  she  did  not  notice :  her  ear  was 
not  trained  to  the  difference.  She  had  learnt  by  faith 
even  to  powder  her  nose,  which  she  thought  very  fast. 
But  Theresa  said :  "  Your  nose  needs  powder.  Pow- 
der it.  Only  vain  women  think  they're  pretty  enough 
to  go  about  with  it  shiny."  Then  she  thought :  "  Got 
to  be  refined  now  and  use  a  napkin."  A  moment  of 
anxiety  when  she'  thought  that  some  people  called  them 
"  serveets  "  ;  she  thought  too  of  Sir  Lucius's  young  lady 
now  that  she  was  married  to  Sir  R.,  and  therefore  was 
Lady  R.  It  was  wonderful,  but  a  little  daunting,  rather 


THE  PYRENEES  265 

like  being  a  queen  at  the  age  of  six  and  going  through  the 
coronation  ceremony  with  an  extra  heavy  crown. 

But  she  was  not  unhappy ;  she  had  no  time  to  be  un- 
happy, for  impressions  rushed  upon  her,  railway  stations 
that  did  not  look  like  railway  stations  as  one  knew  them, 
and  advertisements  of  unknown  commodities:  Quin- 
quina Dubonnet  .  .  .  Galeries  Lafayette  .  .  .  Choco- 
lat  Menier.  She  was  rather  fond  of  the  latter,  for  she 
half -understood  it;  that  was  chocolate,  anyhow,  and  as 
for  Menier  she  concluded  that  was  cream.  Here,  in 
Biarritz,  everything  was  queer ;  the  people  drinking  in 
the  streets  under  awnings,  and  among  them  real  ladies ; 
the  bank  officials,  dressed  like  officers  on  parade;  the 
funny  little  donkeys  carrying  what  looked  like  ten  times 
their  weight.  Everything  was  funny  except,  perhaps, 
the  slow  oxen  that  came,  bound  in  couples  under  the 
yoke,  with  a  lovely  rhythm  in  their  swaying  heads  and 
dewlaps  of  velvet.  The  draught-oxen  stirred  in  her 
something  inexpressible;  she  stopped  her  husband  once 
to  look  at  a  couple  that  passed.  They  were  very  large, 
the  colour  of  curds  and  whey,  and  their  broad  bellies,  a 
little  rough,  shone  like  mercerised  cotton.  Huncote 
understood  vaguely  that  she  liked  them. 

"  Aren't  they  beautiful  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oo,  yes,"  said  Sue,  and  felt  a  lump  in  her  chest 
because  she  could  not  explain  more  than  that. 

They  left  the  town  sometimes  to  go  to  St.  Jean  de  Luz, 
that  is  like  peach  blossom  upon  a  white  wall,  to  San 
Sebastian,  villas  and  boulevards  clustering  with  a  French 
air  under  the  crag  where  is  the  bull  ring,  Africa's 
outpost,  pink  brick  and  yellow  sand  like  a  stain  of  blood 
and  gold.  It  frightened  her,  all  this  colour,  for  never 
before  had  she  seen  much  but  the  grey  and  black  of 
London  streets,  and  leaves  that  have  strewn  ashes  over 
their  bodies  in  prevision  of  their  own  death.  But  it  was 
anxious  too ;  it  was  truly  the  wedding  journey  with  its 
literary  accompaniments  of  riot ;  it  was  revelation,  revo- 


lution,  a  piece  of  new  life  suddenly  forced  into  the  old. 
Sue  felt  that  never  had  life  been  so  vivid,  and  she 
wondered  innocently  whether  it  would  always  be  so, 
without  work,  without  need  to  bother  about  money,  with- 
out rain,  without  wrangles,  and  with  love. 

For  she  loved  him,  the  knight  who  had  come  to  her 
drawn  by  swans;  she  loved  both  him  and  his  silver 
armour,  and  there  was  no  fear  she  should  lose  him  by 
asking  his  name :  simpler  than  Elsa,  she  would  have  been 
too  shy,  and  it  was  enough  that  he  should  walk  with  her 
in  that  silver  armour. 

Her  husband's  mood  varied  little ;  satisfied,  at  last,  in 
his  desire,  able  to  live  without  thinking  about  it,  he  was 
content  to  be  with  her,  to  watch  her  move,  to  hear  her 
laugh,  and  to  let  himself  believe  that  as  it  was  so  would 
it  ever  be.  He  was  just  sensuous  in  those  days,  feeling 
and  hearing,  smelling,  seeing,  an  animal  with  the  intel- 
lectual faculties  of  man  added  to  heighten  the  animal's 
enjoyment.  But  still,  sometimes  a  little  of  his  own  self 
came  up,  and  he  saw.  One  morning  Sue  was  not  very 
well ;  she  looked  pale,  seemed  restless.  At  first  he  hesi- 
tated to  enquire,  out  of  discretion;  then  she  confessed 
that  she  had  slept  ill,  that  she  had  indigestion.  It  gave 
him  an  awful  shock;  somehow  one  ought  not  to  have 
indigestion  on  the  honeymoon;  it  was  not  romantic. 
In  Sue's  case  indigestion  made  her  nose  rather  red.  She 
did  not  get  up  early  that  morning,  and  he  went  out  alone. 
He  walked  rather  miserably  along  the  coast,  nearly  all 
the  way  to  the  race  course ;  it  -was  a  calamity  that  Sue 
should  have  indigestion;  as  this  was  the  honeymoon  he 
thought  indigestion  serious.  Indigestion  occupied  all 
his  thoughts,  and  he  wondered  why  this  healthy  young 
woman  should  suffer  from  it.  Then  he  remembered, 
and  it  gave  him  a  shock :  he  had  vaguely  noticed  Sue's 
behaviour  at  meals;  her  idea  of  hors-d'oeuvre  was  four 
sardines,  several  pieces  of  sausage,  plenty  of  bread  and 
butter,  some  cucumber,  and  all  the  olives.  She  always 


THE  PYRENEES  267 

had  potatoes  with  the  fish,  and  plenty  of  each  vegetable 
after  the  entree.  When  it  came  to  ice-cream,  well,  she 
might  have  been  an  American,  and  there  never  was  much 
left  in  the  fruit  dish,  even  if  it  had  contained  half  a 
dozen  oranges  and  a  pound  of  grapes.  He  grew  quite 
hot  as  he  thought  of  it.  "  She's  greedy,"  he  thought 
gloomily.  Then  still  more  gloomily :  "  She'll  get  fat 
and  coarse."  He  had  a  horrible  vision  of  his  graceful 
love  growing,  well  just  like  those  white-faced  French 
and  Spanish  women  around  him,  with  pendulous  cheeks 
and  downy  ears  and  mouths.  He  hated  her  as  in  his 
mind  he  destroyed  her  beauty.  But  almost  at  once  that 
other  intellectual  self,  which  ten  days  had  swathed  in 
sensuous  veils,  remarked  to  him : 

"  Wait,  you  don't  understand !  Don't  you  know  why 
she  eats  so  much?  Don't  you  know  that  all  her  life 
perhaps  she  has  never  had  quite  enough  to  eat  ?  " 

It  was  pathetic,  but  it  was  terrible  too;  it  was  like 
discovering  an  unclean  past. 

Ill 

And  yet  he  loved  her.  They  went  out  one  evening, 
past  St.  Andrew's  Church,  and  on  up  the  cliff.  As  they 
went  they  talked  desultorily,  Sue  of  a  girl  she  knew  who 
had  been  given  a  fox  terrier  as  a  birthday  present.  Did 
she  like  dogs?  Terriers?  Yes,  rather.  She  didn't 
hold  with  lap  dogs.  They  discussed  the  temperaments 
of  Scotch  and  Irish  terriers. 

"  Awful  fighters,"  said  Sue. 

The  talk  wandered  on  to  the  butcher's  fierce  bull  ter- 
rier in  Northbourne  Koad.  Still  they  climbed  the  cliff. 
At  the  top  they  had  discarded  dogs  and  had  got  to  cats. 

"  Don't  like  cats,"  said  Sue,  "  nasty  deceitful  things ! 
You  never  know  what  they're  up  to." 

Little  by  little,  the  conversation  dwindled  in  the  night 
of  fire  and  black  opal  that  was  about  them,  proper  frame 


268     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

for  their  passion.  He  had  laid  an  arm  about  her  shoul- 
ders that  felt  warm  under  the  thin  wrap,  and  she  said 
nothing,  just  stood  by  his  side,  looking  out  over  the 
murmuring  sea.  The  moon  lay  low  upon  the  horizon, 
like  a  pan  of  flame.  Huncote  thought  of  the  eye  of 
Cyclops  set  in  a  blue  brow.  A  thin  film  of  gauzy  cloud 
swathed  a  half  of  the  moon,  like  a  yashmak. 

Huncote  said : 

"  Isn't  she  beautiful  like  that  ?  Look  how  she 
blushes.  Is  that  because  I  have  kissed  you,  and  it  makes 
her  shy  ?  Perhaps  her  man's  gone  out  of  town." 

She  laughed  and  nestled  closer.  "  Don't  you  think 
she's  beautiful  ? "  he  persevered,  determined  to  tear 
from  her  some  appreciation,  "  like  that,  like  a  big  round 
flame  ?  " 

"  When  she's  red  like  that,"  Sue  murmured,  "  it 
means  rain." 

He  felt  offended  and  repelled ;  he  almost  drew  his  arm 
away,  but  as  she  spoke  she  had  come  closer  to  him  as  if 
telling  him : 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  beautiful  she  is  because  I  can't 
talk,  that  is  because  I  can't  think ;  but  I  can  feel." 

He  saw  something  of  that  in  the  eyes  that  seemed  so 
large  and  dark  in  the  white  face,  faintly  lit. 

"  Kiss  me,"  she  said. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  said  that,  and  as  he  bent 
down  to  caress  her,  all  afire  with  the  discovery  of  his 
love,  there  was  no  room  for  intellectual  difference.  He 
held  her :  it  was  just  she  and  he.  He  kissed  her  and  it 
was  they. 

IV 

It  was  a  blue,  mysterious  night,  pale  and  fugitive, 
hung  with  little  golden  stars,  the  southern  night  made 
for  white  courts  and  the  romantic  rides  of  Don  Quixote, 
a  night  like  blue  silk  flecked  with  gems.  And  yet,  as  if 


THE  PYRENEES  269 

the  world  hated  darkness,  a  faint  light  promised  day 
and  the  thunderous  sun ;  the  night  already  seemed  melt- 
ing in  the  dawn,  like  a  nymph  surprised,  leaving  behind 
her  a  trail  of  rose  and  mauve,  sweet  heralds  of  a  fiercer 
air.  In  the  smoking-room  two  men  talked. 

"  Queer  couple,"  said  one  voice.  It  was  a  clear,  well- 
bred  voice,  that  of  the  highly  brushed  man,  with  the 
cropped  moustache,  soldier  probably,  who  at  dinner  sat 
two  tables  away  from  the  Huncotes  with  the  woman  who 
looked  like  a  duster  and  was,  therefore,  probably  an 
Anglo-Indian.  "  Of  course,  it's  quite  obvious,"  the 
voice  went  on.  "  Usual  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  other  voice,  "  I  hardly  think  it  can 
be  what  you  say  —  they're  so  quiet." 

"  What's  his  name  ?     Huneker  ?  " 

"  Something  like  that.  Huneker  or  Hinker,  I 
think." 

"  Well,  one  can't  be  sure,"  said  the  well-brushed  man, 
"  but  —  you  only  have  to  look  at  them.  He's  all  right, 
but  she  —  oh,  you  know  the  sort.  Mind  you,  they're 
very  decent  girls,"  he  added  hurriedly.  "  May  be  her 
first  bust  for  all  we  know.  I  remember  a  pal  of  mine 
ran  a  little  girl  like  that  for  quite  a  year.  I  forget 
where  he  picked  her  up,  in  one  of  the  big  shops,  I 
think." 

"  She's  wearing  a  wedding  ring." 

"  Oh,  wedding  rings !  "  said  the  highly  brushed  man. 
"  Surely  that's  nothing.  The  jeweller  doesn't  ask  you 
for  your  marriage  lines,  does  he  ? " 

They  laughed  together.  The  man  who  looked  like  a 
company  director  said :  "  Somebody'll  cut  him  out." 

In  a  nudging  tone  the  highly  brushed  man  replied : 

"  Not  yet,  in  a  year  or  two.     They  all  go  that  way." 

Officially  they  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huncote.  Many  of 
the  guests  agreed  with  the  speakers;  others  trusted  the 
wedding  ring;  scepticism  prevailed  most  among  the 
women,  especially  among  those  who  thought  Huncote  too 


270     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

good  for  Sue.  Being  discussed,  they  also  became  cele- 
brated. Huncote  was  already  morbidly  self-conscious, 
so  he  soon  understood  from  the  turnings  of  heads  when 
people  talked  on  the  terrace,  from  covert  looks  flung 
at  them  over  newspapers,  and  from  eyes  which  until  he 
came  in  were  fixed  upon  golf  clubs,  that  they  were  being 
watched.  Either  they  were  disapproved  of,  or  they 
were  curiosities.  Don  Quixote  may  love  the  peasant 
Dulcinea,  but  Oxford  may  not  mate  with  the  washhouse. 
Three  days  later,  a  large  schoolboy,  clad  in  a  blazer  so 
violent  that  he  evidently  belonged  to  a  school  founded  by 
Cedric  the  Saxon,  whispered  to  his  sister  as  he  passed : 
"  That's  'im !  "  In  the  afternoon  the  Huncotes  moved 
to  St.  Jean  de  Luz. 

They  were  happier  at  St.  Jean  de  Luz,  and  Sue  lived 
in  her  dream;  Huncote  recovered,  for  they  did  not  go 
to  the  Continental  but  to  a  smaller  hotel,  where  they 
were  the  only  English  guests,  and  much  admired  of  the 
Trench  and  Spaniards.  Sue  bloomed  as  if  marriage 
had  brought  to  her  a  fuller  life.  Watched,  she  ate  less 
and,  besides,  already  her  appetite  was  waning  as  she 
paid  in  satiation  the  price  of  wealth.  She  looked 
charming,  for  Theresa  had  done  her  work  well ;  she  wore 
white  linen  skirts  with  lingerie  blouses,  white  patent 
leather  belt  with  red  enamel  buckles  that  went  well  with 
her  dark  hair.  In  the  evening  she  was  like  a  moth  in 
flimsy,  half-evening  frocks  of  crepe  de  chine  or  chiffon. 
They  were  very  wonderful  to  her,  those  frocks,  and 
when  she  was  alone  she  liked  to  lay  them  out  on  the  bed 
and  stroke  them:  before  doing  that  she  always  washed 
her  hands,  for  she  could  not  yet  realise  that  in  her  new 
station  her  hands  would  generally  be  clean.  The  frocks 
worried  her  a  little,  even  though  they  were  not  very 
low-cut,  for  she  was  modest,  and  before  she  married  had 
never  exposed  anything  of  her  person  above  the  elbow ; 
in  those  modest  evening  clothes  which  Theresa  had  tact- 
fully chosen,  so  free  from  audacity,  Sue  felt  dreadfully 


THE  PYRENEES  271 

naked.  But  she  liked  it  too ;  it  felt  fast,  exciting ;  there 
was  something  night-clubbish  about  it,  it  was  just  like 
Ada  Nuttall.  Sometimes  she  wished  that  Miss  Theresa, 
she  meant  Theresa,  had  let  her  have  an  extra  quarter 
size  in  shoes.  There  was  only  one  blot, —  her  best  lace 
blouse.  When  Theresa  bought  the  trousseau  she  found 
that  Sue  had  only  three  chemises,  six  handkerchiefs,  and 
two  pairs  of  combinations.  Sue  explained  that  one  did 
not  need  to  have  many  things  when  one  could  always 
wash  them;  she  was  rather  horror-stricken,  brought 
nearer  to  the  idea  of  bankruptcy,  when  she  had  to  thread 
ribbons  through  several  dozens  of  garments,  and  to  learn 
the  use  of  petticoat  bodices  of  lace  and  lawn.  When  all 
her  older  clothes  were  shed  and  she  sat  isolated  from  her 
world  by  those  mysterious  things  which  she  had  seen  on 
no  one  except  on  the  acrobatic  wax  figure  in  Regent 
Street,  she  felt  born  anew,  rather  august ;  she  understood 
"  the  holy  calm  of  feeling  perfectly  dressed."  But, 
Theresa's  eyes  relaxing  for  a  moment,  Mrs.  Groby 
quietly  slipped  into  the  trunk  Sue's  Sunday  lace  blouse : 
"  It'll  come  in  'andy  in  the  evenin'  when  them  swells 
dress,  as  they  say,"  she  remarked  to  her  daughter. 
"An*  it's  a  shame  to  waste  it.  Besides,  w'en  it  gets 
wore  out,  yer  can  wear  it  when  there's  nobody  about  but 
yer  'usband." 

She  said  nothing ;  dimly  she  wanted  to  wear  her  nice 
things  when  her  husband  was  about;  her  matrimonial 
education  was  not  yet  begun ;  but  it  was  a  lovely  blouse, 
a  rich  blouse,  the  sort  of  blouse  one  wanted  to  wear  with 
a  velvet  skirt.  She  wore  it  at  St.  Jean  de  Luz  quite 
suddenly,  with  a  skirt  of  white  drill.  She  also  wore  one 
or  two  pendants:  the  blouse  deserved  them.  Nothing 
happened.  Huncote  did  not  realise  that  there  was  some- 
thing wrong  with  the  blouse,  for  he  was  pure,  and  the 
wages  of  virtue  is  blindness.  But  he  was  disturbed ;  he 
disliked  something  in  Sue's  get-up.  And  she  was  dis- 
appointed that  he  did  not  comment  upon  the  blouse. 


2T2     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

He  ought  to  have ;  there  were  quite  two  and  a  half  yards 
of  insertion  let  into  it ;  she  knew  for  she  had  measured 
them.  She  reflected  that  dress  was  not  understood  of 
men,  which  was  the  beginning  of  matrimonial  education, 
that  is  to  say  of  matrimonial  error. 

They  were  happy  in  those  days,  letting  life  pass 
smoothly,  much  together,  talking  a  great  deal,  frequently 
interrupting  by  caresses  commonplace  conversations. 
But  these  were  not  commonplace;  they  were  thrilling 
because  intimate.  Huncote  heard  about  the  aristocracy 
of  Sue's  family,  the  aunt  who  was  a  cook  in  North 
Audley  Street  at  forty  pounds  a  year  and  unfortunately 
kept  herself  to  herself ;  about  the  distant  cousin  who  was 
a  music  teacher  and  earned  three  pounds  a  week,  "  and 
you  may  not  believe  it  but  she  plays  after  dinner  at  the 
big  hotels  and  has  her  name  in  the  Sunday  paper." 
Also  he  laid  bare  the  deeper  roots  of  the  indigestion :  the 
budget  of  the  Groby  family.  Stonemasonry  was  a  good 
trade,  but  out  of  Mr.  Groby's  thirty-eight  shillings  a 
week,  ten  shillings  went  in  rent ;  there  were  eight  shil- 
lings for  Mr.  Groby's  fares,  beer,  tobacco,  newspapers, 
hospitality,  trade-union  and  clubs.  The  Insurance  Act 
being  mentioned  he  defended  it  but  was  completely 
routed  by  the  expert. 

"  What  d'you  want  an  act  for  ?  "  asked  Sue.  "  We 
only  pay  more  than  we  used  to  to  the  Hearts  of  Oak. 
And  you've  got  to  go  on  with  the  Burial  Club,  let  alone 
the  unemployed  insurance." 

He  tried  to  clear  up  the  muddle  by  working  out  the 
total  per  week,  but  Sue  knew  so  infinitely  more  about 
the  cost  of  funerals  and  the  actual  price  charged  by  the 
slum  doctor  for  his  advice  and  a  bottle  of  red,  about  the 
cost  of  getting  to  the  hospitals  and  the  time  you  had  to 
wait  there,  that  he  had  to  give  in.  He  had  to  take  her 
.  facts  as  she  gave  them  to  him,  from  the  source,  and  to 
try  and  understand  how  the  five  of  them  lived  on  the 
remaining  twenty  shillings  a  week, 


THE  PYRENEES  273 

"  Potatoes,"  said  Sue,  with  an  air  of  general  lucidity. 
It  was  heart-breaking  and  yet  wonderful.  It  was 
good  to  be  Cophetua  and  raise  up  such  an  exquisite 
beggar  maid.  He  loved  her  all  the  more  for  having 
been  poor,  for  now  he  stood  between  her  and  poverty; 
he  was  helping,  he  was  protecting,  and  so  he  could 
love. 

One  by  one,  the  autumn  days  of  the  South  that  are 
such  as  summer  languidly  passed  away.  It  seemed  diffi- 
cult to  remember  the  old  urgencies  of  London,  the  smells 
of  smoke  and  malt  from  the  brewery  behind  the  High 
Street,  and  the  trams  that  thundered  past.  Here  all 
was  order  and  beauty,  luxury,  calm,  and  delight. 

On  the  night  before  they  left  for  Paris,  among  his 
letters  was  one  for  Sue  in  Flora's  handwriting,  but 
there  were  also  two  picture  postcards  from  Perce.  He 
read  them,  for  they  fascinated  him: 

"  Had  an  exciting  time  this  evening.  You  bet  we 
dined  well,  eh,  what?  I'm  writing  this  because  Ma's 
tight,  though  she  doesn't  know  it.  Good  night,  old 
peach  blossom!  Perce." 

This  postcard  embodied  the  broader  humours  of  the 
evening.  Divided  into  two  pictures,  it  showed  the 
bachelor,  his  feet  on  the  overmantel,  smoking  a  big  cigar 
with  the  band  on,  in  the  midst  of  many  bottles,  mostly 
empty,  while  he  read  a  paper,  bearing  the  words :  "  All 
the  Winners."  The  other  half  represented  the  married 
man,  in  a  frayed  dressing-gown,  managing  by  some 
miracle  to  carry  triplets  and  a  feeding  bottle  while  in 
the  background  a  large  and  angry  wife  hovered  with  a 
poker. 

He  turned  the  thing  over  in  his  hand,  then  looked  at 
the  other.  This  one  was  sentimental,  represented  a 
couple  bowered  in  roses,  she  with  her  hair  just  out  of 
curlers,  and  he  very  pink-cheeked,  like  a  young  German 
barber  aware  that  he  was  being  photographed.  It  bore 
this  little  poem : 


274     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

HOPE 

At  the  stile  I  stand  a'  dreaming 
Of  the  day  we  joined  our  hands, 
And  a  future  I  am  weaving 
For  you  and  me  in  distant  lands. 

He  stood  staring  at  them  for  a  long  time,  feeling  all 
dull  and  unable  to  think  of  what  he  should  do.  There 
was  nothing  to  do,  he  thought,  except  to  wait.  When 
Sue  saw  the  cards  she  laughed.  She  seemed  quite  un- 
conscious of  offence.  She  even  showed  him  the  picture 
of  London  comedy,  inviting  him  to  laugh  too,  especially 
at  the  triplets.  It  was  curious :  modest  to  the  point  of 
prudery  in  all  that  concerned  the  relations  of  the  sexes, 
she  seemed  quite  careless  of  results  which  popular  taste 
had  taught  her  to  regard  as  humorous.  But,  finding 
him  cold,  she  suddenly  grew  embarrassed  and  tried  to 
stuff  the  cards  away  into  an  absent  apron  pocket.  Find- 
ing no  pocket,  she  grew  scared  and  stood  crumpling  the 
cards  in  excited  little  hands.  Then,  shamefacedly,  with 
visions  of  Sir  Lucius's  young  lady  passing  through  her 
unhappy  mind,  she  murmured :  "I  s'pose  they've  been 
having  a  bit  of  a  sing-song." 


It  was  just  after  lunch.  She  had  been  married  two 
months.  She  felt  more  comfortable  just  now,  for  at 
last  Ehoda  had  gone  down-stairs,  had  ceased  to  keep  an 
eye  on  her  while  she  ate,  an  uncomfortable  expert  eye 
considering  one  still  had  to  think  out  which  knife  when 
it  came  to  fish.  Not  that  Rhoda  had  ever  adopted  a 
judicial  attitude :  she  was  too  well-trained  for  that.  If 
Ehoda  had  been  told  to  serve  up  lunch  in  a-  trough  her 
blue  eyes  would  have  remained  unemotional,  and  she 
would  either  have  said,  "  Yes,  mum,"  or  given  notice  on 


THE  PYRENEES  275 

the  spot;  in  neither  case  would  an  opinion  have  been 
mirrored  in  the  blue  crystal  of  those  eyes. 

Sue  was  alone  and  looked  with  a  content  in  which  was 
still  a  little  awe,  at  her  dining  room.  Huncote  at  Ox- 
ford had  never  belonged  to  the  aesthetic  push,  the  push 
that  plays  Vincent  d'Indy  and  wears  chocolate  coloured 
cloaks ;  so  his  ideas  of  furnishing  were  not  those  of  the 
Russian  ballet ;  he  was  in  the  old  furniture  stage,  seven 
years  late.  Sue  sat  at  a  gate-leg  table,  a  little  awkward, 
for  she  had  not  yet  found  out  whether  one  should  put 
both  knees  outside,  or  both  knees  inside,  or  one  inside 
and  one  outside  the  double  leg.  As  in  those  days,  by 
Theresa's  orders,  she  wore  a  tight,  almost  hobble  skirt, 
she  vividly  realised  some  of  the  bars  of  the  gilded  cage. 

She  looked  round,  and  again  she  was  a  little  awed  by 
the  tablecloth  with  its  glistening,  flying  birds,  the  rather 
colourless  but  evidently  refined  imitation  Lowestoft 
crockery,  the  pale  green  vase  full  of  amber  chrysanthe- 
mums. She  looked  angrily  at  the  chrysanthemums: 
why,  when  she  did  them  herself,  did  the  cluster  look 
pot-bellied  like  a  publican,  while  Ehoda  alone  had  the 
art  of  giving  their  long  stalks  languor  and  grace  ?  It 
all  looked  very  queer,  the  panelled  walls  and  the  cold 
white  of  the  distemper,  the  Jacobean  dresser  with  its 
willow-pattern  plates,  and  the  toby  jugs  on  the  top, 
which  Sue  thought  quaint.  One  by  one,  she  again  sur- 
veyed every  article  of  furniture,  ladder-back  chairs, 
hanging  electric  lamp  in  beaten  black  iron,  rather  se- 
vere, queer  curtains  with  sprawling  birds,  and  red  and 
blue  carpet  much  too  good  to  tread  on.  She  walked 
about  the  room  rather  aimlessly ;  she  had  nothing  to  do 
and  wished  she  was  like  Ada  Nuttall,  a  rip,  and  could 
smoke  cigarettes.  But  cigarettes  made  her  rather  ill, 
especially  after  coffee :  she  longed  for  a  cup  of  tea. 

But  still  it  was  very  wonderful  and  new.  She  went 
out  into  the  hall,  the  little  green  and  white  hall  with 
prints  of  ugly  theologians  which  she  knew  must  be  good 


276     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

because  obviously  the  frames  cost  such  a  lot.  How 
beautiful  the  short,  firm  Axminster  pile  felt.  Of  course 
it  would  never  do  to  have  a  dog;  vaguely  she  wished 
there  was  a  dog,  something  to  make  a  noise.  For  there 
was  no  noise  down-stairs  where  Ehoda  and  Ethel  were 
refinedly  having  their  dinner.  On  the  drawing-room 
landing  she  paused,  made  as  if  to  go  in,  then  changed  her 
mind.  Instead  she  went  up  to  the  next  floor,  where  was 
her  bedroom  and  that  of  her  husband.  Chaste  and  regu- 
lar was  her  bedroom  with  its  Chippendale  suite,  its  big 
white  cupboard  set  in  the  corner,  the  tall  mirror  let  into 
the  wall,  and  the  many  switches  leading  to  lights  in 
apparently  unnecessary  places.  There  were  very  few 
pictures,  just  some  colour  prints,  and  over  the  mantel- 
piece a  row  of  prints  of  little  girls,  called  "  London 
Cries " ;  Sue  thought  they  looked  rather  silly  kids. 
Indeed  in  the  whole  room,  where  she  now  stood  rather 
worshipping,  there  was  nothing  personal  in  half  curtain, 
lace  toilet  cover  or  silver  brush.  It  was  wonderful;  it 
felt  like  the  day  she  had  been  to  the  Loan  Exhibition  of 
pictures  at  the  St.  Panwich  town  hall;  it  made  her 
respectful.  She  was  living  among  the  sort  of  things 
which  normally  one  saw  only  in  the  shop  windows.  She 
was  still  a  little  dazed,  though  she  had  slept  in  this  room 
for  a  month ;  it  had  complexities  she  did  not  quite  under- 
stand, a  mischievous  double  switch  especially,  which 
always  seemed  to  turn  on  the  light  near  the  bed  when  she 
wanted  it  over  the  dressing  table.  Only  one  thing 
seemed  real :  between  the  windows  a  large  steel  engrav- 
ing of  "  Wedded."  Eoger  did  not  at  all  like  "  Wed- 
ded " ;  but  Sue  had  bought  it  out  of  a  money  present  he 
insisted  upon  giving  her  at  the  end  of  the  engagement, 
and  what  could  he  do?  What  could  he  do,  especially 
when  she  flung  herself  back  into  his  arms  in  the  attitude 
of  the  Eoman's  bride  and  said :  "  It's  just  like  you  and 
me!" 

For  a  long  time  Sue  remained  staring  at  the  picture : 


THE  PYRENEES  277 

yes,  that  was  art.  (She  had  been  hearing  a  little  about 
art  lately.)  It  was  more  than  art,  it  was  different  from 
everything  else  in  the  room:  all  these  things,  Sue  ad- 
mired, but  she  had  never  thought  of  possessing  them ;  the 
picture,  yes,  that  had  been  a  dream,  but  attainable,  and 
she  had  attained  it  while  the  other  things  represented  a 
foreign  life.  Still,  she  had  nothing  to  dox  She  remem- 
bered Flora  had  said  something  about  lying  down  after 
dinner  —  lunch,  she  meant.  But  then  Sue  had  always 
had  something  to  do  at  that  time,  and  she  could  not  get 
used  to  lying  down.  She  went  into  Roger's  room,  next 
to  hers,  rather  nervously.  It  frightened  her,  this  place 
so  definitely  masculine,  for  it  had  never  entered  her 
mind  that  a  married  couple  might  have  two  rooms,  or 
even  two  beds.  The  arrangement  had  never  been  dis- 
cussed, for  Huncote  had  no  principles  in  those  things; 
after  taking  the  house  he  found  it  so  awkwardly  planned 
that  the  front  room  was  not  much  larger  than  the  back 
one.  Two  beds  would  have  crowded  it,  and  so  Flora, 
half  to  help  and  half  to  shock,  induced  her  brother  to 
have  his  own  room.  "  It's  queer !  "  thought  Sue.  It 
was  a  little  bleak  to  her  as  well  as  queer,  and  even  worse. 
She  had  assumed  that  marriage  was  a  peculiar  and  con- 
tinuous intimacy :  two  rooms  inevitably  made  that  inti- 
macy spasmodic  and  purposeful.  For  Sue  was  modest ; 
she  was  one  of  those  who  think  that  nothing  matters  if  it 
seems  unintentional.  She  loved  him,  she  had  a  silent, 
brooding  sensuousness,  she  had  led  him  to  the  land  of 
new  delights  without  herself  knowing  the  way.  But  still 
she  could  not  bear  that  the  truth  should  be  true.  Sepa- 
ration, except  in  moments,  forced  her  to  realise  the  defi- 
niteness  of  desire.  That  separation  made  of  her  room 
the  temple  of  Aphrodite.  She  hated  that,  it  seemed 
immodest.  It  frightened  her,  it  tied  her  tongue,  and 
her  husband  did  not  understand.  When  every  evening 
he  came  before  going  to  bed,  even  when  he  merely  sat 
down  upon  her  bed,  took  her  hand  and  talked  of  quite 


278     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

insignificant  things,  she  felt  herself  grow  quite  small 
and  contracted  because,  though  he  was  her  husband,  he 
was  within  her  privacy,  and  it  shocked  her  that  even  he 
should  intrude  upon  this  privacy. 

Sue  did  not  want  to  have  any  privacy  at  all:  it  was 
not  normal  that  privacy  should  outlive  marriage.  And 
sometimes  she  would  throw  her  arms  about  him,  drag 
him  down  to  her  and  kiss  him,  hiding  her  eyes  against 
him.  He  thought  she  loved  him  then  and  was  glad ;  he 
did  not  understand  that  she  wanted  to  hide  her  eyes  so 
that  she  might  not  see  her  attitude  as  equivocal. 

Slowly  she  went  down-stairs.  Somehow  it  was  all  too 
much.  She  had  not  had  time  to  dream  during  the  short 
engagement.  In  the  days  of  Bert  she  sometimes  thought 
they  would  take  two  rooms  in  the  Dwellings  or  some- 
where else.  After  the  coming  of  Huncote,  her  mother 
gave  her  thoughts  precision.  Mrs.  Groby  talked  with 
breezy  carelessness  of  Sue  having  a  house  of  her  own. 
That  had  been  terrifying  and  then,  little  by  little,  the 
house  formulated  itself:  a  villa  in  Lamoro  Avenue, 
Highgate,  one  of  the  nice  little  houses  with  a  yellow 
gravel  front  garden,  and  a  green  dot  of  grass  in  the 
middle.  She  showed  the  little  house  to  Huncote,  who 
laughed  and  said  it  would  be  too  small.  Mrs.  Groby 
helped  her  then,  and  very  slowly  another  dream  formed, 
also  in  Highgate,  a  big  double-fronted  house,  with  a 
drive  and  something  vague  and  impressive  called 
grounds.  The  Groby  family  found  it  very  difficult  to 
get  beyond  Highgate,  because  in  those  fields  Sue  some- 
times took  short  walks  with  Bert  when  he  came  out  of 
the  workshop.  And  they  had  the  instinct  of  their  class 
to  live  as  close  as  possible  to  each  other. 

But  that  did  not  avail.  Even  Ada  Nuttall's  sugges- 
tion, who  wanted  for  Sue  a  smart  cottage  in  the  country, 
Finchley  way,  with  a  garage  for  the  car  (generous  ges- 
ture) ,  a  cottage  which  might  be  called  Kosikot,  was  not 
accepted  of  Flora.  What  Flora  really  wanted  was  a 


THE  PYRENEES  279 

flat,  but  Huncote's  tendency  was  to  shut  himself  off  with 
his  love,  also  to  have  his  own  house,  hearth,  castle.  And 
so  it  became  Pembroke  Square,  because  Flora  was  quite 
determined  that  as  she  had  not  stayed  in  Clare  Street 
she  was  this  time  going  to  stay  somewhere.  Sue  ac- 
cepted :  she  accepted  everything  but  considered  the  rent 
which,  so  far  as  she  could  work  out,  was  almost  Mr. 
Groby's  wages  for  a  year,  a  lot  for  a  house  so  poky  and 
tumble-down. 

Just  outside  the  drawing-room  she  stopped  again. 
She  looked  in  at  the  pretty  room,  with  its  white  and  blue 
paper,  its  rather  staring  chintzes,  the  mahogany  furni- 
ture and  the  prints.  There  was  a  fire  shining  brightly. 
She  hesitated.  Upon  the  little  vernis  martin  table  lay 
Punch  and  The  Morning  Post.  Still  she  hesitated, 
hardly  knowing  why,  and  then  decided  that  she  could  not 
go  in.  She  was  not,  she  felt  dimly,  yet  able  to  sit  in  the 
drawing-room  after  dinner, —  lunch,  she  meant. 

Quickly  she  dressed;  she  could  not  find  the  pair  of 
shoes  she  wanted,  and  this  annoyed  her;  Rhoda  must 
have  taken  them  away.  Then,  as  it  did  not  occur  to 
her  to  ring  the  bell,  she  put  on  another  pair.  She 
looked  charming  in  a  blue  coat  and  skirt,  the  coat  rather 
short,  and  lapels  of  flowered  silk  that  looked  very  small 
and  insignificant,  she  thought.  That  skirt  was  tight, 
but  then  she  had  asked  Ada  Nuttall,  who  laughed  at  her. 
She  drew  on  her  white  gloves  carefully  and  wished  they 
were  not  so  long,  for  she  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do 
with  the  part  that  went  up  to  the  elbow.  She  wore  a 
rather  large  hat  that  threw  darkness  into  the  shadows 
under  her  eyes.  As  she  stood,  her  neck  swathed  in  her 
husband's  present,  a  stole,  only  stone  marten,  but  yet 
incredibly  rich,  two  strips  of  white  leather  indicating 
the  hands  in  the  muff,  she  looked  mature,  and  there  was 
a  little  smile  of  pleasure  upon  her  lips.  She  was  going 
out  to  look  at  the  shops,  wonder  what  she  would  like  to 
buy,  and  whether  she  would  have  the  courage  to  buy  it 


280     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

after  all.  She  did  not  quite  like  herself  in  these  browns 
and  blues ;  the  black  hat,  with  its  Chinese  trimming  of 
blue  and  gold,  disappointed  her;  she  would  have  liked 
a  touch  of  real  colour,  but  Flora  and  Theresa  were  so 
interfering.  Very  carefully  she  went  down-stairs  and 
silently  out ;  Rhoda  had  not  seen  her  go. 

She  breathed  more  freely  in  the  crisp  air.  The  traffic 
of  the  gay  December  day,  sunny  somehow  and  brisk, 
pleased  and  cheered  her.  She  liked  everything, —  the 
motorbusses,  the  hurry  of  the  people.  And  yet  at  the 
same  time  she  felt  that  what  she  left  behind  somehow  she 
took  with  her  too.  She  felt  established  and  house- 
conscious;  she  could  not  get  away  from  the  preoccupa- 
tion of  the  established  that  was  hers  and  yet  ran  itself 
without  her.  She  was  responsible  and  not  in  charge; 
or  in  charge  and  not  responsible. 

She  sighed,  and  then  she  found  that  instead  of  turning 
to  the  right  she  had  turned  to  the  left.  She  did  not 
know  the  district  well,  and  only  the  dowdiness  of  the 
shops  told  her  she  was  making  for  Hammersmith  instead 
of  for  Kensington.  Already  she  was  beginning  to  detect 
differences  in  shops.  But  it  was  all  very  wonderful,  and 
for  a  full  hour  she  went  on  to  the  Broadway,  on  to  King 
Street,  to  gaze  at  bananas,  and  chairs,  and  handkerchiefs 
at  three-three.  It  felt  more  real  here  than  further  east ; 
she  knew  that  much.  She  saw  people  like  the  St.  Pan- 
wich  people ;  she  had  heard  voices  like  theirs  before.  It 
was  not  so  different  here.  She  had  not  done  any  or- 
dinary shopping  for  so  long ;  she  had  been  only  to  dress- 
makers, and  milliners,  and  decorators,  where  everybody 
spoke  so  nicely,  just  like  ladies  and  gentlemen.  On  an 
impulse  she  went  into  a  little  stationer's  and  bought  a 
familiar  penny  packet  of  stationery  which  she  did  not 
want.  The  woman  called  her  "  Ma'm  ",  and  somehow 
that  was  not  what  she  wanted.  She  wondered  why 
oppression  was  suddenly  come  upon  her.  Why  should  it 
with  the  friendly  trams  roaring  past  ?  With  the  crowd 


THE  PYRENEES  281 

swirling  on  and  off  the  pavement,  just  like  the  High 
Street,  and  even  the  butcher  shouting  farther  on? 
Perhaps  it  was  that  already,  at  half-past  three,  the  De- 
cember sun  was  waning,  and  a  grey  rawness  falling. 
Sue  did  not  know.  She  did  not  want  to  go  anywhere, 
or  to  go  home,  or  to  stay ;  she  felt  plucked  out,  as  if  she 
were  having  a  bath  in  the  middle  of  the  Albert  Hall  with 
a  full  house  staring  at  her.  She  walked  along  slowly, 
hardly  noticing  that  she  was  being  jostled. 

She  went  a  long  way  into  the  west,  noticing  less  now 
the  things  about  her  and  thinking  rather  dimly  of  ideas 
rather  than  of  facts.  She  was  not  used  to  that,  and  it 
was  difficult.  She  thought  of  herself  the  night  before 
at  the  theatre,  of  the  commissionaires,  of  the  programme 
girls  who  spoke  so  nicely,  and  looked  so  nice,  just  like 
the  ladies  in  the  dress  circle.  "  Of  course,"  thought 
Sue,  "  they  aren't  real  ladies ;  they  wouldn't  be  working 
if  they  were."  It  had  been  difficult,  for  she  did  not 
quite  know  how  to  treat  them  when  they  spoke  to  her  to 
show  her  her  seat  or  something.  She  did  not  really  feel 
superior,  for  some  of  them  were  quite  as  good  as  Ada 
Nuttall.  Still,  and  she  was  gloomy  over  the  idea  of 
separation  rather  than  proud,  she  supposed  it  was  differ- 
ent for  her,  Mrs.  Roger  Huncote.  One  was  a  lady  when 
one  had  seven  hundred  a  year.  It  did  sound  a  lot.  But 
the  idea  of  wealth  did  not  cheer  her ;  it  was  too  much : 
"  Seven  hundred  a  year,"  she  thought,  "  what's  that  a 
week,  I  wonder  ?  "  She  could  not  do  it.  She  had  as 
much  difficulty  in  conceiving  seven  hundred  a  year  as 
one  of  another  class  would  have  had  in  conceiving  a 
million  a  year;  five  pounds  a  week  would  have  seemed 
much  more  opulent  to  her.  "  Besides,"  she  thought, 
"  it's  all  so  funny."  That  was  how  she  put  it  to  herself, 
but  what  she  meant  was  that  all  this  wealth  seemed  ficti- 
tious, that  one  did  not  seem  to  see  money,  only  bits  of 
paper  like  cheques  and  account  books  with  big  figures 
marked  on  them,  and  only  a  little  cash  now  and  then. 


282     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

It  was  not  like  the  princely  Fridays  when  Mr.  Groby 
stacked  thirty-eight  shillings  in  silver  in  a  tall  pile  upon 
the  table,  sometimes  more,  if  he  had  worked  over-time. 
That  was  real,  while  her  present  wealth  felt  like  fairy 
gold  and  might,  if  you  looked  at  it  in  the  morning,  turn 
out  to  be  only  leaves. 

Sue  was  at  the  meeting  place  of  two  classes,  different 
as  sea  and  river,  restless  in  alliance  like  the  waters  that 
break  upon  the  bar.  In  a  play  of  unguessed  strange- 
nesses she  had  stumbled  while  in  a  state  of  somnam- 
bulism into  a  new  world :  she  awoke  and  was  lost.  She 
had  burnt  all  her  old  gods  and  did  not  yet  know  how  to 
worship  at  the  new  shrine ;  in  the  new  world  she  found  a 
strange  people  that  ate  differently,  spoke  and  dressed 
differently,  who  spent  incomprehensible  sums,  it  seemed, 
for  nothing,  who  had  endless  clothes  for  occasions  that 
she  could  not  understand,  mysterious  games,  golf,  hunt- 
ing ;  liveries  for  the  seaside,  for  the  country ;  people  who 
found  pleasure  at  places  where  nothing  much  seemed  to 
happen,  like  Eanelagh  and  Prince's  Skating  Club,  who 
seemed  quite  satisfied  to  take  tea  and  look  at  one  another 
and  smile;  they  were  strange  people  indeed,  with  their 
voices  placed  rather  high  in  their  heads,  and  their  won- 
derful way  of  switching  off  when  it  looked  as  if  they 
were  going  to  say  something  they  really  meant.  Sue 
was  the  product  of  a  cruder,  a  bloodier  civilisation  with 
its  emotions  more  on  the  surface,  and  now  she  was 
leaping  into  the  conflict  of  class  instead  of  following  the 
gentle  gradient  from  Paradise  Row  to  Highbury,  to 
Hampstead,  to  South  Kensington,  to  Knightsbridge,  and 
then  to  Mayfair.  Sue  was,  in  the  admirable  phrase  of 
Michael  O'Connor,  taking  the  plunge  at  a  gulp. 

She  stopped ;  she  was  a  little  tired  and  did  not  quite 
know  where  she  was,  for  she  had  lost  the  trams  round 
the  corner.  This  was  near  Ravenscourt  Park ;  she  felt 
alone  and  cold  and  wondered  where  she  could  get  some 
tea.  And  thought  of  something  else  as  if  nothing 


THE  PYRENEES  283 

quieted  her.     Then  she  found  she  was  staring  at  the 
poster  of  the  local  music  hall. 

BY  SPECIAL  ARRANGEMENT 

AND  AT  ENORMOUS  COST  THE  MANAGEMENT 

HAVE  THE  PLEASURE  AND  THE  OPPORTUNITY 

OF  PRESENTING 

THE  MAN  OF  MYSTEKY 
DE  BEKE 

WITH  NEW,  COSTLY  AND  GORGEOUS  SCENERY  IN  A  GREATLY 
ENLARGED  AND  ELABORATE  ENTERTAINMENT.  A  PERFORMANCE 
FULL  OF  EXCITEMENT,  WONDER,  AND  EDUCATIONAL  INTEREST. 

Sue  felt  that  she  would  like  to  go.  Educational  in- 
terest especially  struck  her ;  she  did  so  want  to  improve 
her  mind.  But  gloom  settled  upon  her,  for  she  told  her- 
self that  in  her  new  station  this  was  no  longer  right: 
music  halls  were  not  refined.  Yet  for  some  time  she 
stayed,  staring  at  the  poster,  rather  like  a  little  slum 
child  in  front  of  a  sweet-shop  when  it  has  not  got  a 
penny. 

At  last  she  turned  to  go  home  and  wondered  where  to 
find  a  tram.  As  she  stood  on  the  kerb,  rather  aimlessly, 
a  crawling  taxi  came  towards  her,  dawdling  a  little  more 
when  the  driver  saw  this  well-dressed  young  woman. 
He  looked  at  her  enquiringly,  but  she  did  not  respond ; 
she  was  still  wondering  where  to  find  the  trams,  and  it 
did  not  occur  to  her  to  take  a  taxi. 


VI 

Mrs.  Huncote  and  Flora  came  to  tea.  In  a  way  this 
was  tea  experimental,  for  Sue  was  alone.  During  the 
first  month  very  few  people  had  called  upon  the  young 
couple;  when  they  unexpectedly  did  so  Mrs.  Huncote, 
Junior,  was  prudently  not  at  home ;  on  other  occasions 
Roger  was  there,  and  Flora  had  flitted  in  in  the  after- 
noon ;  the  real  At  Home  which,  to  satisfy  the  Huncotian 


284     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

tradition  ought  to  be  given,  had  not  yet  taken  place. 
Nothing  had  been  said,  but  Huncote  unconsciously,  and 
his  relatives  deliberately,  rather  cut  off  the  young  bride 
from  the  social  fold,  hoping  that  by  and  by  it  would  be 
all  right.  This  afternoon  Sue  was  not  making  a  social 
debut,  but  having  a  sort  of  trial  run.  It  began  very 
well,  for  the  weather  was  bad  and,  therefore,  topical; 
also  Sue  had  for  the  first  time  seen  Sir  Herbert  Tree 
and  felt  so  sorry  for  Caliban  "  stuck  upon  a  bit  of  rock 
all  alone  "  that  her  old  allegiance  to  Mr.  Lewis  Waller 
needed  rediscussing.  Mrs.  Huncote  did  not  talk  much 
but  watched  her  daughter-in-law;  she  liked  her  that 
afternoon ;  she  admired  her  taffeta  frock,  with  a  hint  of 
panniers.  She  rather  wished  that  her  stockings  were 
not  so  vividly  blue,  but  still,  on  the  whole.  .  .  .  And 
Mrs.  Huncote  thought :  "  It's  clever,  somehow ;  the 
girl  must  have  some  taste  after  all."  She  wondered  how 
far  Miss  Underwood  was  responsible.  But  Flora  had 
other  concerns. 

"  You  know,  Sue,  hair's  getting  much  flatter ;  you 
ought  to  keep  yours  down  a  bit." 

"  D'you  think  I  ought  ?  "  said  Sue  seriously. 

"  Well,  yes,  pads  are  quite  out,  you  know." 

"  I  never  wore  a  pad  in  my  life,"  said  Sue. 

"  No,  I  know,"  said  Flora,  "  it's  only  your  hair  that's 
so  thick.  Wish  mine  was ;  I'm  going  to  cut  it  off  short 
and  have  a  fringe." 

"  Flora !  "  cried  Mrs.  Huncote.  "  How  can  you  talk 
such  nonsense  ? " 

"  I  am.     Everybody's  doing  it  in  Paris." 

"  Well,  they're  not  doing  it  in  St.  Olaves." 

"  They  will,"  said  Flora,  "  when  I  do." 

Mrs.  Huncote  laughed.  "  Yes,  I  can  see  the  Belhus 
girls  cutting  their  hair  short  like  French  artists'  mod- 
els!" 

Sue  was  interested.  "  Do  they  really  ? "  she  said. 
"  I  shouldn't  like  to  cut  my  hair  short." 


THE  PYRENEES  285 

"Oh,  do,"  said  Flora  mischievously,  "it'll  look  so 
rapid." 

"  Eapid  ?  "  asked  Sue  blankly. 

"  Fast,"  said  Flora. 

"  Don't  listen  to  her,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote,  "  she 
doesn't  mean  it." 

She  need  have  had  no  fear,  for  Sue  blushed.  "  Fast ! 
How  could  Flora  be  so  horrid !  "  The  very  idea  made 
her  unable  to  think  of  anything ;  she  was  glad  when  the 
tea  came,  though  she  had  to  struggle  with  it  a  good  deal, 
to  remember  to  use  the  sugar  tongs  and  not  to  forget  to 
let  people  choose  between  milk  and  cream.  And  that 
dreadful  Ehoda  brought  up  some  sliced  lemon  just  be- 
cause she  had  once  been  in  the  household  of  Princess 
Saragamovsky.  All  through  tea  this  .sliced  lemon 
haunted  Sue :  what  did  one  do  with  sliced  lemon  ?  (  She 
ate  some  of  it  when  they  were  all  gone,  and  liked  it.) 

The  talk  went  around  theatres  and  dress,  easy  enough 
then ;  Mrs.  Huncote  helped  a  lot,  for  she  was  going  to  the 
Riviera  for  a  while  with  Elspeth.  Flora  was  not  en- 
vious, as  this  would  enable  her  to  stay  in  London. 

"  You  must  ask  Roger  to  bring  you  over  before  we 
leave,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote  kindly;  "you'll  like  it,  it's 
so  pretty, —  all  pink  and  blue." 

"  I  know,"  said  Sue,  and  thought  of  the  Pyrenees. 
"  It's  lovely.  I  used  to  look  at  the  pictures,  you  know, 
—  the  big  pictures  outside  Charing  Cross, —  and  won- 
der what  it  was  like." 

"  Charing  Cross  ? "  said  Mrs.  Huncote,  puzzled. 

"  The  railway  advertisements,  Mother,"  said  Flora. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote.  "  And  was  it  as  fine  as 
the  railway  advertisements,  Sue  ?  " 

"  Oo,  yes,"  said  Sue,  "  it  .  .  ."  Then  she  hesitated. 
It  all  looked  lovely  on  the  railway  advertisements  and 
yet  —  somehow  ...  So  she  said :  "  I  d'no,"  and  went 
on  struggling  with  the  difference  between  the  bit  of  blue 
sea  when  one  was  not  quite  comfortable  as  to  one's 


286     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

behaviour,  and  the  easier  joy  of  a  railway  advertisement 
which  one  could  look  at  with  Ada  Nuttall,  while  one 
nudged  the  other  if  young  men  stared,  and  sucked 
peppermints. 

They  talked  of  pictures  at  the  galleries  too,  and  Sue 
did  what  she  could.  Mrs.  Huncote  had  a  lot  to  say  of 
Lady  Montacute.  This  reduced  Sue  to  partial  stupor; 
the  idea  that  she  might  one  day  meet  Lady  Montacute 
was  too  terrifying.  Did  one  kneel  ?  Or  was  that  only 
for  the  Queen  ? 

At  last  they  went  away. 

Mrs.  Huncote  said :  "  D'you  know,  she  isn't  bad. 
She  may  shape  into  something,  if  we  don't  hurry  her. 
At  any  rate  she  knows  how  to  keep  her  mouth  shut,  and 
when  she  opens  it  her  teeth  are  rather  pretty." 

"  I  think  she's  a  peach,"  said  Flora,  feeling  very  dar- 
ing and  American. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  use  slang,"  said  Mrs.  Huncote. 

Sue  felt  much  better.  After  all,  it  had  gone  off  quite 
well ;  it  was  only  her  relations,  but  still  they  were  very 
new  relations,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  done  well ;  she 
was  much  relieved.  Only  she  was  rather  hungry,  for 
she  was  not  used  to  a  light  lunch  and  this  elementary  tea. 
She  had  never  eaten  much  meat,  but  she  was  accustomed 
to  a  filling,  indigestible  meal,  mainly  made  up  of  pota- 
toes and  bread,  about  one  o'clock.  As  Ehoda's  idea  of  a 
lunch  was  something  like  an  anchovy,  a  one-egg  omelette, 
and  a  cutlet  as  large  as  a  half-crown,  Sue  wanted  a  real 
tea,  not  a  tea  made  up  of  bread  and  butter  that  you  had 
to  double  before  you  could  hold  it.  She  thought  of  had- 
docks, and  sighed. 

"  Well,"  asked  Koger,  in  the  evening,  "  how  did  it 
gooff?" 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  right,"  she  said. 

"  Any  news  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  blankly.  What  news  could  there 
be?  He  asked  what  Flora  had  said;  she  tried  to  tell 


THE  PYRENEES  287 

him,  but  he  was  not  very  interested  in  her  hair  troubles, 
and  when  once  more  she  returned  to  the  Tree  v.  Waller 
controversy  he  was  not  interested  either;  he  seemed  to 
have  heard  enough  of  it.  He  seemed,  especially,  to 
want  to  know  how  Sue  liked  his  mother  and  sister,  for 
he  knew  how  necessary  it  was  that  she  should  like  them. 

"Oo,  I  do  like  'em,"  said  Sue.  "They  always 
seem  to  know  —  well,  they  always  do  right,  don't 
they?" 

He  laughed.  "I  don't  know,  but  I  think  I  know 
what  you  mean.  Of  course  anybody' d  like  Flora." 

"  I  did  at  once,"  said  Sue,  "  though  I'm  not  one  for 
taking  fancies." 

"  Sue,"  he  asked  after  a  while,  thoughtfully  shaking 
the  ash  from  a  cigarette,  "  what  about  your  old  friends  ? 
The  girls  you  used  to  know  ?  Why  don't  you  ask  them 
along  ?  "  He  did  not  know  why  he  said  this ;  he  wished 
nothing  better  than  to  be  rid  of  all  her  old  friends,  in- 
cluding her  family  if  that  were  possible. 

"  Well,"  said  Sue,  "  I  didn't  know  whether  you'd  like 
it" 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  and  strok- 
ing it.  "  Do  try  and  understand  you're  quite  free.  I 
s'pose  you  don't  understand  that,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Sue. 

"  I  mean,  you  can  do  what  you  like.  Be  a  little  care- 
ful." He  felt  acutely  uncomfortable.  "  There's  been 
a  change,  of  course.  But  still  anybody  you  used  to  like, 
ask  them  to  see  the  house.  I  don't  want  to  keep  you 
away  from  everybody,  your  girl  friends  or  even  the  men 
you  used  to  know." 

"  Roger !  "  said  Sue,  rather  shocked,  "  I  couldn't  know 
any  men,  not  now." 

He  was  relieved.  He  laughed  and  drew  her  a  little 
closer.  "  You  baby,"  he  said,  "  I've  not  bought  you ! ' 

He  kissed  her  cheek,  and  she  did  not  seem  to  notice ; 
she  was  thinking. 


288     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  it  feels  awfully  funny.  If 
I'd  married  somebody  else,  a  man  like  — "  She  thought 
of  Bert  and  altered  it  to  "  like  those  I  used  to  know,  I 
couldn't  go  about  with  anybody  else." 

"  No,"  said  Huncote,  "  I  know ;  married  and  done 
for;  you  undertake  to  give  each  other  for  life  all  the 
society  you  need,  and  if  any  society  comes  along  you 
happen  to  want,  you've  jolly  well  got  to  do  without  it. 
That's  it,  Sue,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  have  put  it  like  that,"  said  Sue  grudg- 
ingly. "  It's  all  right  when  you  aren't  married ;  then 
you  can  be  friends." 

Once  more  they  discussed  the  curious,  nominally  sex- 
less and  deeply  sensual  associations  between  young  men 
and  women,  extending  over  years,  always  on  the  edge  of 
mutual  conquest,  seldom  triumphant,  often  dead  before 
realisation,  always  robbed  of  mystery  and  delight  when 
long-baulked  attraction  comes  to  a  tardy  blooming.  Sue 
did  not  understand ;  she  was  so  ready  to  assume  that  love 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  body,  so  ready  that  she  never 
thought  about  it;  and  yet  she  found  so  little  to  give  it 
save  the  body.  She  made  her  husband  curious  in  those 
moods,  and  he  questioned  her. 

"  Oh,  well,"  she  said,  "  it's  easy  enough  to  go  wrong, 
especially  down  St.  Panwich  way."  She  grew  coy  and 
half-proud.  "  I  remember,  I  was  only  fifteen  then ;  a 
fellow  came  up  to  me  in  the  High  Street,  and  he  said : 
'  Come  along  with  me  to-night ;  we'll  go  to  the  Heath 
and  have  some  fun.' ' 

Huncote  interrupted.     "  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  said,  <  No  fair.'  " 

He  laughed ;  it  amused  him  to  find  her  so  virginally 
fierce,  capable  through  her  innocence  of  protecting  her- 
self where  a  more  wily  one  would  have  fallen.  He  tried 
to  learn  more  of  this  world  where  adventure  sounded  so 
much  more  sudden  and  more  violent  than  in  his  own, 
but  she  had  grown  self-conscious.  These  topics  gone 


THE  PYRENEES  289 

they  found  nothing  else  to  say ;  he  smoked  and  she  sat 
there,  gently  kicking  the  little  vernis  martin  table. 
They  both  grew  aware  that  they  had  nothing  to  say, 
and  that  was  awkward.  But  their  marriage  was  young, 
and  so  he  kissed  her ;  so  held,  though  so  different,  they 
felt  that  they  were  of  the  same  essence. 

Much  later  in  the  evening,  before  they  went  to  bed, 
some  of  the  thoughts  that  occupied  her  were  spoken  at 
last.  Sue  was  bothered  because  she  had  no  money  and 
very  reluctantly  asked  for  some : 

"  But  I  don't  understand,"  said  Roger,  "  you've  got 
your  cheque  book." 

"Yes,"  said  Sue. 

"  Well,  draw  a  cheque !  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  sad,  dark  eyes ;  she  had  often 
looked  at  that  cheque  book  with  the  blank  figure, 

£...., .,.  .,  that  might  mean  anything;  but  what 

she  ought  to  do  she  did  not  know.  He  understood 
suddenly. 

"  Sue,  you've  never  written  a  cheque,  have  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sue  helplessly. 

"  I'll  show  you." 

They  spoilt  two  cheques,  making  out  one  to  the  gas 
company  for  a  hundred  millions. 

"  And  would  they  really  give  me  a  hundred  millions," 
asked  Sue,  "  for  that  ?  " 

He  kissed  her  again;  he  loved  her  for  being  stupid. 
Little  by  little  Sue  grew  bolder,  she  made  a  cheque  out 
to  him ;  she  felt  very  proud  because  it  contained  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence.  It  was  an  exciting  exercise,  it  was 
like  making  money ;  the  blank  cheque  looked  impressive, 
but  the  cheque  filled  in  was  a  sort  of  thunderclap ;  just 
before  she  signed  she  felt  the  sort  of  hush  come  over  her 
which  forms  in  a  music  hall  when  the  man  on  the 
trapeze  is  going  to  do  his  great  trick  and  the  orchestra 
stops.  Huncote,  not  having  anything  else  to  say,  asked 
her  what  she  wanted  the  money  for ;  she  told  him  diffi- 


290     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

dently  that  she  wanted  to  send  something  to  an  old 
friend  of  her  mother's,  a  charwoman  who  —  well,  she'd 
been  in  trouble,  but  she  had  such  a  hard  life.  It  took 
a  little  time  to  explain  that  "  in  trouble "  was  the 
tender  way  of  the  poor  of  saying  "  in  prison." 

He  tried  to  understand  how  Sue's  rigid  morality  could 
allow  her  to  help  the  woman.  He  failed.  He  could 
not  grasp  the  anarchism  of  the  poor,  united  only  against 
the  law,  conscious  that  they  too  may  one  day  suffer  at  its 
hands,  pitiful  before  they  are  censorious. 

"  She  didn't  oughter  do  things  like  that,"  said  Sue, 
"  but  she  does,  and  there  you  are." 

The  quietist  morality  amused  him.  "And  any- 
how," Sue  added,  "  she  does  have  such  a  hard  life." 

As  he  held  her  then  he  was  all  moved  and  melted  by 
the  sweetness  of  her,  her  easy  acceptance  of  things  as 
they  were,  her  easy  charity,  her  easy  belief  in  what 
was  told  her,  her  entire  lack  of  ideas,  qualifications, 
theories,  her  realisation  of  duty  as  a  tradition,  her  ig- 
norance of  restraints  other  than  a  vague  conscience  and 
the  police.  He  felt  too  civilised,  and  it  was  horrible 
already  to  feel  different,  to  begin  to  wonder  whether 
they  would  ever  cease  to  be  different,  they  two.  It 
frightened  him,  so  he  held  her  closer,  kissed  her  more 
violently,  half  because  he  loved  her,  and  half  because  he 
sought  to  persuade  himself  that  by  holding  her  closely  he 
might  make  himself  hers.  It  was  passionate  and  hor- 
rible to  embrace  a  doubt. 

Sue  went  to  the  bank  next  day,  bent  upon  a  bagful  of 
gold,  but  when  she  got  there  the  young  man  was  very 
superior,  and  clearly  knew  what  she  really  was.  Her 
courage  failed  her.  She  wanted  to  leave  the  bank,  but 
she  was  much  too  afraid;  that  would  have  been  like 
going  into  a  shop  and  buying  nothing.  So  with  very 
hot  ears  she  passed  through  the  grating  an  exceedingly 
ill-written  cheque,  made  out  to  Mrs.  Roger  Huncote,  for 
five  shillings.  She  was  for  many  months  to  have  plenty 


THE  PYRENEES  291 

of  trouble  with  cheques.  By  and  by,  as  her  cheques 
grew  larger  with  her  experience,  eyebrows  were  no 
longer  raised  at  her,  but  one  day  she  drew  a  cheque  for 
ten  pounds,  and  when  the  young  man,  now  grown  polite, 
said :  "  How  will  you  have  it  ?  "  she  said :  "  I'll  have 
it  now."  The  staff  of  the  bank  behaved  disgracefully  to 
her  that  day. 

VII 

He  loved  her,  stumbling  on  like  this  through  the 
mysteries  of  another  class.  He  loved  her  hesitations, 
always  due  to  the  fear  of  offending,  her  anxiety  not  only 
to  behave  like  a  real  lady,  but  still  to  be  what  she  really 
was,  Sue  Groby,  much  more  than  Susan  Huncote, 
always  tender,  always  ready  to  help,  and  never  conscious 
that  she  was  doing  so.  Her  family  were  established,  for 
though  Mr.  Groby  continued  in  the  stone-masonry,  a 
pound  a  week  came  to  the  Grobys;  Perce  now  went  to 
the  City,  and  Muriel  was  passing  on  to  a  Young  Ladies' 
Academy.  She  had  begun  the  piano  and,  faithless  one, 
found  nothing  but  vulgarity  in  the  mouth-organ  of  Romeo. 

Huncote  learnt  how  much  already  Sue  mattered  to 
him  when,  for  three  days,  he  had  to  go  to  Manchester 
to  decide  whether  some  small  cottages  his  mother  owned 
near  Guide  Bridge  should  be  pulled  down  and  rebuilt. 
She  wrote  to  him  every  day  long  letters  in  a  childish 
round  handwriting,  unpunctuated  letters  with  indis- 
criminate "  darlings  "  scattered  in  them,  and  "  tons  of 
kisses  "  at  the  end,  and  crosses  which  he  understood ; 
they  thrilled  him  nearly  as  much  as  her  caresses.  Only 
one  thing  puzzled  him :  an  inscription  on  the  outside  of 
the  envelope  every  morning :  S. W. A.K. 

When  he  came  back  he  asked  her : 

"  Sue,  why  d'you  put  S.W.A.K  outside  my  letters  ? 
What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

She  laughed  and  blushed.  "  It  means,  sealed  with  a 
kiss,  you  silly !  " 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND 

HESITATION 


ROGER  HTTNCOTE  was  not  happy.  He  was  not  un- 
happy. He  was  tasting  the  ordinary  stuff  of  life. 
And,  half -consciously,  he  felt  it  should  not  be  so,  as  if 
three  months  after  marriage  fate  were  not  affording 
him  the  poetic  justice  of  illusion  unmixed.  He  had  still 
to  grow  up  and  learn  the  art  of  life :  to  know  how  to  do 
without  happiness.  Against  all  probability  his  adven- 
ture was  not  yet  a  failure ;  the  charm  of  simplicity,  of 
devotion,  of  childish  sensuality  still  clung  about  Sue ;  he 
was  still  given  that  which  is  most  delicious  to  the  male, 
admiration  and  adoration,  until  he  learns  that  a  more 
delicious  thing  is  to  find  the  one  to  whom  he  can  give  this 
admiration  and  adoration.  But  already  a  faint  psycho- 
logical difference  existed  between  their  attitudes,  for 
Roger  was  happiest  when  away  from  Sue  and  he  could 
think  of  her,  while  Sue  was  happiest  when  he  was  pres- 
ent, when  he  could  with  a  smile  unite  with  her  in  a  sort 
of  eucharist.  For  she  to  him  was  the  dream,  and  he  to 
her  was  the  fact,  so,  together  or  apart,  always  one  of 
them  missed  what  he  or  she  desired.  He  was  not  dis- 
satisfied, but  he  began  more  clearly  to  perceive  she  was 
not  cultured  in  his  sense ;  she  had  a  refinement  of  emo- 
tion beyond  his,  whose  refinement  was  intellectual,  but 
he  was  conscious  that  she  had  not  the  habit  of  an  atmos- 
phere of  refinement.  She  would  not  leave  old  slippers 
in  the  middle  of  the  drawing-room  because  it  was  un- 
tidy, while  he  would  not  leave  them  there  because  it 
was  ugly.  The  little  things,  so  many,  of  which  life  is 


HESITATION  293 

made,  seemed  continually  to  bring  up  this  difference. 
Slightly  she  bruised  him  and  slightly  he  chilled  her. 
They  loved  each  other  and  yet  were  bruised  and  chilled ; 
they  made  allowances  which  were  almost  criticisms. 

One  day  she  came  to  fetch  him  at  the  Settlement. 
They  intended  to  shop  a  little  and  then,  after  a  hasty 
dinner,  to  go  on  to  one  of  the  promenade  concerts.  He 
was  happy  with  her  as  they  went  along  Oxford  Street, 
for  the  cold  wind  had  stung  rose  into  her  dark  cheeks ; 
other  men  looked  at  her,  and  Huncote  felt  proud  to  be 
with  a  woman  at  whom  other  men  looked.  And  Sue, 
keeping  very  close  to  him,  felt  that  other  girls  envied 
her.  They  knew  each  other  to  be  desirable  then,  be- 
cause others  seemed  to  think  so ;  they  were  dogs  in  each 
other's  manger,  possessive,  therefore  lovers.  It  was 
amusing  to  shop,  to  differ,  and  so  easily  to  give  way, 
just  to  resist  enough  to  have  the  pleasure  of  surrender- 
ing. They  bought  a  new  bottle  for  his  dressing-case; 
they  went  into  Selfridge's  to  buy  a  veil,  and  Sue  did 
not  feel  too  shy  of  the  young  ladies  who  seemed  to  re- 
spect her.  It  was  lucky  she  could  not  read  thought  and 
realise  the  envy  of  the  young  lady  at  the  veils  who  won- 
dered whether  the  nice  young  fellow  had  picked  her  up 
inside  or  outside  the  shop.  Sue  was  treated  to  a 
pound  of  chocolates  at  the  Maison  Tigre,  and  as  they 
crossed  the  road  she  remembered  just  in  time,  for  anx- 
iously she  had  opened  the  box  and  was  preparing  to  put 
a  chocolate  in  her  mouth.  They  stopped  nearly  oppo- 
site, at  the  picture  shop,  and  Sue  looked  very  respect- 
fully, at  the  autotypes,  "  The  Laughing  Cavalier ", 
"  The  Majordomo."  She  stared  for  a  long  time  at 
"  Mona  Lisa  ",  then  said : 

"  Don't  she  look  wicked  ?  " 

This  offended  him  a  little,  and  he  took  her  round  the 
corner,  but  there,  before  "  The  Bath  of  Psyche  ",  Sue 
grew  rigid. 

"  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  like  that,"  said  Huncote. 


294     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  It's  too  well  painted,  it  leaves  nothing  to  the  imagina- 
tion; but  still,  Leighton  in  paint  is  a  bit  what  Walter 
Scott  was  in  writing.  That  reminds  me,  have  you  read 
any  Walter  Scott  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  you  might  like  one  or  two ;  The  Heart  of 
Midlothian,  for  instance,  unless  — "  He  remembered 
Sue's  prudery  and  understood  her  attitude  before  "  The 
Bath  of  Psyche."  "  Sue,"  he  said,  "  what's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  said,  but  looked  very  embar- 
rassed. 

He  felt  tempted  to  laugh  at  her. 

"  You  think  the  lady  hasn't  got  enough  on,  don't 
you?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  burst  out : 

"  I  think  it's  horrid,  horrid !  How  can  people  show 
those  things  —  in  the  street.  They  ought  to  be  locked 
up,  all  of  them."  He  laughed  and  she  grew  angrier. 
"  It's  wrong,  makes  one  think  of  all  sorts  of  nasty 
things." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  asking  her  what  there  was 
nasty  in  them  when  something  else  offended  him.  He 
remembered  George  Green  who  had  called  the  Venus  of 
Milo  "  Very  'ot !  "  It  chilled  him  to  think  that  Sue 
should  feel  like  that,  and  for  the  first  time,  unconscious 
educator,  he  wondered  whether,  even  if  she  so  desired, 
a  nymph  of  Arcadia  could  become  a  syrinx. 

It  was  difficult  to  talk  to  her  in  the  evening  for  still, 
owing  to  the  discouragement  of  visitors,  a  sort  of  isola- 
tion was  about  them.  Sue  would  have  had  no  objection 
to  keeping  themselves  to  themselves ;  no  doubt  that  was 
her  attitude  towards  life;-  she  had  never  thought  of 
entertaining  anybody  except  relatives,  and  that  not 
often;  church,  perhaps,  on  Sunday  evening,  and  a 
music  hall  on  Saturday  night  and  for  the  rest  of  it, 
well,  one  could  always  make  blouses,  while,  she  sup- 


HESITATION  295 

posed,  a  man  would  smoke  a  pipe,  or  sleep.  Only  this 
involved  some  real  work  from  early  morning  up  to 
about  seven,  and  neither  of  them  had  that.  Their  life 
was  to  be  one  mainly  of  pleasure,  and  they  did  not  know 
how  to  take  that  together.  So  in  the  evenings  it  had 
turned  out  a  little  as  Sue  expected,  for  Roger  read  and 
smoked,  while  she,  deprived  of  the  chance  of  making 
blouses,  amended  most  unsuccessfully  those  which  The- 
resa had  ordered  for  her  in  Wigmore  Street.  She  was 
more  familiar  with  him  now,  and  he  with  her.  That 
humanised  him,  and  she  loved  him  better  when,  having 
confessed  to  him  the  history  of  the  novelette,  .she  was 
allowed  to  call  him  "  Sir  R," ;  childish  lover,  she  liked 
to  be  called  "  Susie  "  and  even  "  Suekins."  But  fa- 
miliarity which  bred  ease  tended  also  to  breed  free  and 
ease,  which  was  not  quite  so  successful.  In  those  days 
there  was  a  case  in  the  Law  Courts  which  had  amused 
her  rather  much.  She  had  learnt  by  heart  some  of 
the  lover's  verses,  and  one  night  she  recited  them  to 
him: 

"  He  sent  a  letter  to  his  love, 

But  in  his  mind  he  fumbled, 

He  put  that  letter  in  the  care  of  another  hand, 

Then  stumbled 

Bow,  wow,  wow,  wumbled." 

She  recited  them  with  great  gusto,  especially  the  last 
line  which  she  rendered  as: 

"Bow,  Wow,  WOW,  wumbled." 

"  Don't  you  like  it  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Don't  you  think 
it's  funny  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  rather  rigid.  "  It's  very 
funny." 

She  did  not  understand ;  she  laughed  unrestrainedly. 
Indeed  she  insisted  upon  telling  him  all  about  the  case, 
and  in  the  next  days  became  reminiscent  of  it.  As  he 
went  out  after  breakfast,  when  he  kissed  her,  she  held 


296     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

him  suddenly  tight  and  said:  "Let's  play  lemonade, 
I'll  be  the  lemon,  and  you  be  the  squeezer." 

It  hurt  him  horribly;  he  was  a  serious  young  man 
who  did  not  understand  the  comic  side  of  love.  It  was 
soiling,  all  this,  and  he  did  not  know  what  to  do,  did 
not  understand  that  at  a  word,  if  only  he  chose  it  well, 
the  mask  of  comedy  would  fall,  and  under  it  he  would 
find  the  serious  mouth  and  the  veiled  eyes  of  the  love 
he  sought. 

She  was  very  lonely  when  he  was  out,  for  she  rapidly 
grew  tired  of  going  around  the  house,  examining  her 
new  possessions.  She  knew  the  furniture  now,  and 
even  wonderful  little  details  like  the  glass  shelves  in 
the  bathroom  were  ceasing  to  thrill  her.  Also  Sue 
could  telephone  painlessly.  The  telephone  training 
had  been  rather  fierce.  Within  a  few  days  of  their 
arrival  in  the  house  it  had  rung  suddenly  as  they  came 
in.  As  he  had  used  his  latchkey  Rhoda  was  not  there, 
and,  in  a  spirit  of  mischief,  Huncote  rushed  Sue  to  the 
instrument,  seized  the  receiver,  put  it  in  her  hand, 
against  her  ear,  and  then  said :  "  Go  on,  talk !  "  For 
a  few  moments  he  stood  and  laughed  helplessly  at  the 
cruel  spectacle  of  Sue  hanging  on  to  the  instrument 
with  both  hands,  speechless,  her  mouth  wide  open,  her 
eyes  bulging.  "  Go  on,  talk !  "  he  said.  "  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Sue  whispered  miserably.  "  Oh,  I 
can't  hear  what  they're  saying.  Who  is  it?  Oh, 
I  wish  they'd  go  away." 

"  Take  care,"  cried  Eoger,  "  they  hear  you."  This 
made  Sue  stamp  with  rage,  and  yet  she  could  not  let 
go.  At  last  she  flung  him  a  furious  look,  dropped  the 
receiver  with  a  bang,  and  ran  up-stairs. 

The  machine  terrified  her.  She  was  not  accustomed 
to  the  pitch  of  the  voice,  indeed  she  did  not  quite  know 
what  to  do  with  the  receiver  when  the  operation  was 
over,  and  she  got  into  the  most  awful  messes  with  the 
exchange  because  when  told  to  call  up  a  number  she 


HESITATION  297 

mumbled  it  and,  when  pressed  to  be  clearer,  gave  her 
own.  They  had  to  practise,  and  Sue  learnt  just  in 
time.  For  after  a  few  experiments  her  husband  rung 
her  up,  pretending  to  be  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
which  idea  almost  reduced  her  to  hysterics.  She  learnt 
just  before  it  began  to  bore  him. 

She  learnt  to  shop  a  little,  too,  to  consult  with  Ethel 
in  the  morning  as  to  what  the  menu  should  be,  to  be 
repressed  when  she  hinted  that  Welsh  rabbit  or  pickled 
pork  was  rather  nice.  "  I  thought  to  myself  we  wanted 
a  change,"  she  said  timidly,  but  Ethel  was  polite  and 
immovable. 

She  was  lonely  because  she  hesitated  to  avail  herself 
of  the  leave  which  her  husband  had  given  her  to  see  her 
old  friends.  She  would  have  liked  to  see  them  apart 
from  him,  but  as  they  all  worked  during  the  day  it  was 
impossible  to  have  them  alone.  She  lunched  once  or 
twice  with  Ada  ISTuttall,  and  that  was  helpful,  for  the 
desire  to  entertain  her  friend  taught  her  to  affront  the 
Criterion.  It  had  been  a  slight  adventure,  that  order 
at  the  Criterion,  wondering  all  the  time  during  lunch 
whether  the  five  pounds  that  she  had  in  her  purse  would 
be  enough,  "  for  you  never  knew,  with  all  those  French 
things  on  the  bill."  The  Criterion  surprised  her  be- 
cause it  seemed  so  cheap,  and  it  was  successful,  this 
party,  for  it  made  Ada  together  rippish,  careful,  and 
rather  respectful:  to  be  entertained  like  this  by  a  fel- 
low, it  was  all  right,  but  coming  from  another  woman 
it  implied  more  than  money,  it  implied  class. 

Ada  Nuttall  came  up  one  evening  after  dinner  with 
another  one  of  the  girls,  Miss  Thorpe.  They  were  both 
very  anxious  to  be  easy  and  to  "  pal-up  "  with  Roger, 
only  it  was  a  little  difficult  to  "  pal-up  "  with  him ;  it 
might  have  been  managed  in  the  Park,  but  not  in  Pem- 
broke Square,  in  presence  of  a  Jacobean  dresser  and  an 
obvious  rent  of  a  hundred  a  year.  Things  were  not 
made  much  easier  by  Sue  having  begun  the  conversa- 


298     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

tion  to  Ada  by  saying,  "  Well,  you  are  a  stranger !  " 
Roger  dimly  felt  this  was  not  hostessish.  The  begin- 
nings of  the  evening  were  very  tongue-tied  and  consisted 
in  the  two  girls  being  shown  various  things  by  Sue. 
They  seemed  much  embarrassed ;  carpet,  curtain,  orna- 
ment, nothing  escaped ;  everything  was  "  lovely  "  or, 
to  vary,  "  so  nice."  In  despair,  Roger,  being  one  angle 
of  a  square,  the  other  three  angles  of  which  were  the 
three  young  women,  compelled  them  all  to  drink  port ; 
he  had  a  wild  idea  that  if  he  could  make  them  drunk 
it  might  be  easier,  and  he  was  struggling  not  to  lapse 
into  Settlement  manners.  He  succeeded  all  too  well, 
for  Miss  Thorpe  became  much  more  rippish  than  Ada 
and  told  a  long  story  about  the  goings-on  at  the  mani- 
cure parlour.  Sue  was  rather  taken  with  this  new  rip 
and  asked  when  she  could  see  her  again. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Miss  Thorpe,  "  what-th  the  date- 
th?" 

Ada  and  Sue  laughed  abundantly,  and  Miss  Thorpe 
encouraged,  when  a  little  later  Huncote  asked  her, 
apropos  of  travel,  whether  she  liked  Brighton,  replied: 

"  I  should  shay  sho." 

He  was  sorry  somehow  when  the  effects  of  the  port 
subsided.  He  left  them  to  themselves,  but  even  then 
conversation  stumbled.  Miss  ISTuttall  and  Miss  Thorpe, 
try  as  they  might  to  carry  it  off  with  the  air  of  girls 
who  were  used  to  manicuring  the  aristocracy,  could  not 
pretend  that  they  were  used  to  this  sort  of  thing. 

Later  in  the  evening  Miss  Thorpe  called  Sue  "  Mrs. 
Huncote  " ;  she  was  not  of  the  class  that  would  have 
called  her  "M'am",  but  somehow  this  was  quite  as  bad. 
Dimly  Sue  felt  friendless,  as  if  she  had  lost  the  old  and 
not  gained  the  new. 

II 

At  Pembroke  Square,  when  they  came  in,  Mrs.  Hun- 
cote introduced  a  kitten.  Three  months  later  it  had 


HESITATION  299 

developed  into  a  young  but  athletic  cat.  One  day  the 
cat,  growing  venturesome,  brought  down  most  of  the 
glass  on  the  upper  shelf  of  the  pantry,  together  with 
various  pots  of  jam.  This  puzzled  Rhoda,  not  the  jam 
but  the  glass,  for  evidently  it  was  for  the  lady  of  the 
house  to  look  after  the  glass.  She  told  Sue : 

"  Princess  Saragamovsky  was  very  particular  about 
her  glass,  M'am."  Then  for  a  moment  Rhoda  felt 
tempted  to  be  human  and  to  tell  her  mistress  where  to 
go ;  but  Rhoda  was  too  well-trained  a  servant ;  her  hu- 
manity flickered  and  went  out. 

"  All  right,"  said  Sue  airily,  "  I'll  order  some  to-day, 
and  while  I'm  about  it  I'll  get  some  jam.  Mr.  Hun- 
cote  says  he's  tired  of  raspberry  and  currant ;  too  many 
pips  in  it" 

The  athletic  cat  had,  it  seemed,  broken  so  many  of 
the  tumblers,  actually  nine  out  of  twelve,  that  Sue  did 
not  trouble  to  take  one  as  a  specimen.  She  thought  she 
would  just  buy  what  she  fancied. 

Two  days  later  Roger  held  up  in  his  hand  a  tumbler, 
a  large,  heavy  glass. 

"  Hallo !  "  he  said.  "  These  aren't  our  usual  tum- 
blers, are  they  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Sue,  unconscious  of  offence,  "  the  cat 
broke  most  of  those,  so  I  had  to  get  some  new  ones." 

Huncote  was  not  a  man  to  whom  the  delicacies  of 
glass  or  linen  meant  much  unless  they  were  absent,  and 
there  was  something  decidedly  wrong  in  this  massive 
glass,  thick,  greyish,  machine  moulded,  with  a  dreadful 
squidgy  twirl  at  the  bottom  where  the  glass  had  come 
off  the  mould. 

"  They  were  only  three-pence-ha'penny,"  said  Sue. 
"It's  wonderful  how  cheap  they  make  these  things 
nowadays." 

He  did  not  say  anything,  but  when  next  morning  he 
precipitately  put  down  a  spoonful  of  strawberry  jam 
that  seemed  at  the  same  time  to  be  sticky,  musty,  and 


300     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

carefully  kept  together   with   pink   glue,   he  lost   his 
temper. 

He  was  unjust;  he  did  not  understand  whence  came 
the  impulse  to  pay  three-pence-ha'penny  for  tumblers, 
or  to  buy  jam  at  fourpence  a  pound,  cheap  jam,  jam 
which  was  advertised  everywhere,  jam  made  in  vats, 
out  of  turnips,  glucose,  and  stalks.  He  did  not  under- 
stand that  she  could  not  spend  because  she  had  never 
spent,  that  if  she  were  to  be  natural  she  must  still  buy 
what  the  poor  bought.  When  a  little  later  he  under- 
stood, in  his  folly  he  wished  she  had  flung  herself 
vampire-like  upon  the  luxuries  of  her  new  class.  He 
would  not  have  liked  it  either  if  she  had,  but  this  was 
a  love  relation  and  not  made  to  be  satisfied.  He  could 
not  gauge  the  depth  of  Sue's  fear,  of  her  hesitation 
before  silver  coins,  nor  the  humility  still  more  cruel 
that  made  her  pass  shops  in  Piccadilly  and  tell  her- 
self, if  she  thought  at  all,  that  their  wares  were  not  for 
the  likes  of  her. 


Ill 

"  You  know,"  said  Huncote,  "  it  was  awfully  decent 
of  you  to  help  Sue." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Theresa,  with  something  false  in 
her  voice.  "  I  rather  liked  it ;  she's  sweet.  There's 
something  so  fresh  and  ingenuous  about  her ;  and  some- 
thing humble  which  hurts  one  sometimes,  as  if  she 
didn't  know  how  sweet  she  was." 

"  Yes,"  said  Huncote,  and  paused.  It  was  embar- 
rassing, this  praise.  If  he  had  been  a  man  of  the  world 
he  would  have  suspected  Theresa  of  wanting  to  slay  a 
rival  by  sickening  the  rival's  lover  from  love  into  grati- 
tude. But  had  Huncote  been  a  man  of  the  world  he 
would  have  been  wrong,  for  Theresa  was  sincere,  and 
nothing  is  so  deceptive  as  that.  For  a  long  time  he 
said  nothing  but  just  smoked  on,  lighting  another  ciga- 


HESITATION  301 

rette  from  the  stump  of  the  one  he  had  just  finished. 
He  disturbed  Theresa;  he  was  becoming  a  chain 
smoker;  that  was  new,  and  the  new  always  disquieted 
her.  Still,  she  hesitated  to  grow  personal. 

"  I  haven't  been  very  well,"  she  said.  "  I  must  go 
away  soon." 

His  face  suddenly  expressed  concern. 

'  Not  well  ?  "  he  said.  That  was  his  voice  speaking, 
but  behind  the  voice  something  inside  his  heart  whis- 
pered :  "  Going  away !  " 

And  Theresa,  so  remote  were  they  both  just  then, 
thrilled  at  his  voice  as  if  she  heard  only  the  unspoken 
whisper. 

"  Not  for  very  long,"  she  said  reassuringly,  "  just  for 
two  or  three  weeks  into  the  country.  I  always  feel 
washed  out  in  the  spring." 

He  looked  at  her  more  closely:  indeed  she  did  look 
pale,  and  there  was  a  faint  purple  zone  around  her  eyes 
that  made  them  deeper  and  more  humid. 

"  Are  you  going  to  friends  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  I  shall  go  somewhere  alone ;  I  might  take  Eliza- 
beth to  bully  me  and  tuck  me  up." 

"  Because  I  was  thinking  we  might  be  going  away 
for  a  while,  I  don't  know  where." 

He  did  not,  for  he  had  only  just  thought  of  it  and 
was  not  aware  that  he  had  just  thought  of  it. 

She  understood  but  did  not  respond.  She  had  borne 
it  all  very  well  so  far,  though  she  had  begun  to  feel 
that  she  cared  for  him  more  as  she  grew  more  certain 
of  having  lost  him.  No,  she  could  not  bear  that.  She 
thought  of  Sue,  and  for  a  moment  hated  her ;  then  she 
despised  herself  for  hating  the  guiltless,  also  for  desir- 
ing one  who  did  not  desire  her.  She  told  herself  that 
she  must  not  go  on  with  this  conversation,  that  it  was 
too  much  for  her,  would  make  her  say  more  than  she 
meant,  might  make  her  say  all  she  meant,  which  would 
be  far  too  much.  She  felt  her  hands  clench ;  she  looked 


302     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

at  them,  saw  the  knuckles  redden,  and  thought: 
"  That  makes  my  hands  ugly ;  well,  they  ought  to  be 
ugly  to  him;  so  much  the  better."  And,  as  she  so 
thought,  found  herself  woman,  desirous  of  attracting, 
and  unclenched  her  hands,  let  them  fall,  white  and  long- 
fingered  like  sprays  of  fern.  She  thought :  "  I  must 
not  speak  to  him,"  and  murmured :  "  But  you  won't 
miss  me !  "  Before  he  could  reply  she  rescued  herself 
and  added :  "  Sue's  all  right  now." 

He  had  not  understood ;  he  was  too  young  to  have  a 
quick  ear  for  the  whispers  of  love ;  as  yet,  he  could  hear 
love  only  when  it  bellowed,  and  he  thought  of  Sue  with 
a  faint  feeling  of  disloyalty. 

"  Sue  ?     Yes,  oh,  yes.     Oh,  it's  quite  all  right." 

He  was  lying,  and  they  both  knew  it.  They  stared 
into  each  other's  eyes,  sorrowful  and  as  if  determined 
to  hide  their  mutual  lie. 

"  Only,"  he  went  on,  "  it's  —  it's  difficult.  I  can't 
explain  —  I  expected  it  to  be  difficult —  It's  all  so 
new  to  her  —  little  things." 

Theresa  felt  her  heart  grow  narrow;  she  did  not 
know,  but  she  had  a  vision  of  little  things,  intonations, 
errors  of  tact,  little  things  so  big,  and  he  would  not  tell 
her;  she  knew  he  would  not  tell  her,  he  would  be  too 
loyal.  She  wished  he  would  tell  her  if  only  to  have 
his  confidence,  and  yet  she  knew  she  would  hate  him 
if  he  told  her,  for  giving  Sue  away.  He  went  on : 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  mean,  Theresa,  but  it's  so 
complicated,  taking  somebody  out  of  one  life  and  push- 
ing her  into  another.  It's  not  just  changing  over  from 
cotton  gloves  into  kid.  One  wants  to  change  the  hand 
as  well  as  the  glove." 

"  Roger !     You  don't  want  to  change  the  hand !  " 

"  No,  of  course  not,  that's  a  figure  of  speech.     Only 
it  all  seems  so  difficult  because  .  .  .  Well,  you  see, 
there  I  am  in  the  Settlement,  and  then  I  come  back  — 
I  thought  —  women  had  their  own  friends  and  when  I 


HESITATION  303 

came  home  —  there' d  be  somebody  there.  You  see 
what  I  mean  ?  " 

Theresa  laughed.  "  Sultan !  You  want  to  come 
home  and  find  the  dancing  girls  waiting  for  you." 

"  It's  not  that ;  I  hardly  know  what  I  mean." 

"  I  do,"  said  Theresa,  "  you  want  the  ordinary  house- 
hold, with  '  At  Home '  cards  stuck  into  your  looking- 
glass,  and  a  little  dinner  waiting  for  you,  with  the  menu 
written  in  French.  After  dinner,  when  you  and  the 
other  men  have  had  enough  port  and,  if  tradition  does 
not  lie,  improper  stories,  you  want  to  come  into  the 
drawing-room  and  find  four  nice  women,  excellently 
gowned,  with  whom  you'll  discuss  the  play,  the  weather, 
the  country,  whom  you'll  tell  what  they  ought  to  think 
about  politics,  whom  you'll  put  right  on  any  subject 
except  dress;  before  dress  you'll  assume  a  humorous 
attitude,  half-disdainful,  half-worshipping.  At  five 
minutes  to  eleven  the  first  couple  will  say :  '  We  really 
must  go ;  thank  you  so  much.'  .  .  ." 

"  Don't !  "  cried  Huncote. 

But  Theresa  was  merciless. 

"  You're  like  all  men,  you  expect  marriage  to  be  the 
great  solution,  to  be  wafted  by  the  registrar's  wand  into 
a  world  where  everything,  games,  society,  household, 
art,  sick-nursing,  travel  bureau,  will  be  available  for 
you  when  you  press  a  button.  Or,  better  still,  where 
everything  works  so  smoothly  that  you  only  have  to  tell 
your  wife  to  press  the  button.  It's  not  a  woman  a  man 
ought  to  marry,  it's  William  Whiteley's." 

He  did  not  reply  for  a  moment ;  he  did  not  seem  to 
mind  the  onslaught,  and  said :  "  I'm  not  thinking  of 
all  that.  The  main  thing's  love." 

"Well,"  said  Theresa,  in  a  voice  suddenly  hard, 
"  haven't  you  —  isn't  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  impatient. 
"  Only,  somehow  —  one's  always  alone.  It's  so  diffi- 
cult for  her,  being  used  to  what  she  is.  She  had  one 


304:     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

or  two  of  her  friends  the  other  night  —  she  liked  that 
but  .  .  ." 

"But  you  didn't?" 

He  grew  aggressive. 

"  I  asked  them  to  come  myself." 

She  saw  that  she  had  been  tactless,  and  swerved. 
"  But  your  own,"  she  said. 

"  We've  had  an  at  home ;  you  know,  for  you  came ; 
that  was  all  right.  Only  one  gets  so  lost  among  a  lot 
of  people.  It's  something  else  —  not  what  they  call 
society,  but  a  feeling  —  oh,  how  shall  I  put  it?  — 
that  one  knows  a  few  people  who  like  one,  and  who 
don't  criticise  one,  only  .  .  ."  He  did  not  like  to 
finish  the  sentence  and  to  say,  "  only  they  do  criticise 
my  wife." 

She  understood. 

"  Aren't  you  a  little  impatient  ?  "  she  said.  She  felt 
so  much  older  than  he.  She  remembered  that  at  home : 
yes,  Sue  had  behaved  all  right  there.  She  had  been 
like  an  excited  child  with  shining  eyes,  and  looked 
charming.  She  had  not  said  much  and  only  at  the  very 
end  had  she  warmed  up  and  talked.  Perhaps  she  had 
talked  too  much,  for  Theresa  remembered  that  she  had 
heard  her  say  to  a  young  soldier  who  was  paying  her 
a  compliment :  "  Why  this  thusness  ?  "  She  smiled 
to  herself,  for  that  phrase  had  evidently  been  learnt  in 
the  Ada  RTuttall  school.  But  her  smile  faded,  for  Hun- 
cote  had  thrown  away  that  eternal  cigarette  and  rested 
his  head  upon  one  hand,  half-hiding  his  face.  She 
leant  forward. 

"  Roger !  "  she  said.  "  Do  be  a  little  patient ;  do  try 
to  understand.  Yes,  I  know  it  isn't  easy  for  you,  and 
you  knew  it  wouldn't  be;  but  I  know  you  can  do  it. 
You've  only  got  to  care  for  her  enough,  and  she'll  be- 
come just  what  you  like,  and  everything  will  become 
just  what  you  like.  Try!  Help  her  a  little.  If  she 
can't  make  for  you  the  society  you  need,  well,  you  must 


HESITATION  305 

make  it;  you  must  entertain  a  little.  Don't  throw 
yourselves  like  that  upon  each  other;  don't  always  be 
looking  only  at  each  other  until  you  see  nothing  except 
what's  wrong." 

He  looked  at  her  sideways,  still  unhappy. 

"D'you  think  I  could?'"  he  said.  "  D'you  think 
I'd  know  how  ?  Oh,  I  feel  a  beast  for  talking  like  this." 

Theresa  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  she  said,  "  it's  only  fear  makes 
you  weak,  and  only  weakness  makes  you  unhappy.  Be 
a  little  more  ready  to  face  the  world  and  let  it  say  what 
it  likes.  It  isn't  so  very  far  to  eternity ;  why  not  learn 
how  to  cast  roses  under  your  feet  as  you  walk  upon  a 
road  that  need  not  after  all  be  so  dusty  ? " 

He  did  not  reply  for  a  long  time,  and  then  her  opti- 
mism, her  certainty  of  him,  filled  him  with  a  new 
strength.  He  turned,  he  gripped  her  hand;  he  liked 
to  feel  it  long  and  rather  hard,  and  he  looked  into  the 
dark  eyes  that  seemed  so  tender. 

"  You're  the  best  of  friends,"  he  said  huskily. 

She  pressed  his  hand,  and  there  was  a  bitterness  in 
her  as  if  she  felt  that  she  had  parted  him  still  more 
from  her  by  her  kindness  and  his  need.  Never  before 
had  she  loved,  but  often  she  had  been  near  love,  and 
she  guessed  what  there  was  in  it  of  hardness,  almost  of 
cruelty,  of  desire  to  conquer;  she  knew  that  the  path 
to  love  is  not  the  path  of  roses  of  which  she  spoke,  but 
a  path  of  roses  and  thorns.  And  so  it  hurt  her  abomi- 
nably that  between  her  and  Koger  Huncote  it  should  all 
be  so  easy  and  so  sweet. 

He  felt  different  when  alone.  He  had  laughed  be- 
fore he  went,  but  now  in  the  street,  where  night  had 
fallen  as  a  screen  of  black  velvet  swathed  in  mists  that 
gleamed  as  a  peacock's  feathers,  he  was  again  confined, 
and  around  the  world  looked  awkwardly. 

There  was  quite  a  group  upon  his  doorstep;  outside 
stood  a  van  and  in  the  front  garden  a  crate  from  which 


306     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

straw  had  scattered.  A  little  way  back  in  the  hall 
stood  Sue,  rather  flushed,  her  arms  akimbo  as  if  she 
were  holding  the  pass  against  the  carter  and  his  mate 
who  filled  the  doorway  with  a  menacing  air.  Just  be- 
hind Sue  he  could  see  the  helpless  black-and-white  hov- 
ering of  Rhoda,  evidently  trying  to  reconcile  diplomatic 
intervention  with  the  traditions  of  unobtrusive  parlour- 
maiding.  He  heard  angry  voices. 

"  I  didn't  arsk  yer  for  nothin'  .  .  ." 

"  You  can  'ave  yer  money  back  if  yer  like  .  .  ." 

Then  to  his  horror  Sue's  voice :     "  Shut  yer  noise !  " 

He  shouldered  his  way  past  the  two  men  and  nearly 
laughed,  for  Rhoda,  as  if  she  had  never  heard  such 
words  before,  leant  limply  against  the  wall.  But  he 
was  anxious  too  and  angry. 

"What's  this?"  he  asked.  "What  does  all  this 
mean?" 

There  was  a  babble  of  explanation. 

"  They  say  it  isn't  enough,  and  yet  I  gave  them  .  .  ." 

"  We  didn't  arsk  the  lady  fer  nothin',  sir ;  only  when 
we  brings  in  a  chest  as  weighs  a  'undredweight  .  .  ." 

"  Took  us  'arf  an  hour  to  unpack,  sir." 

"  But  .  .  ."  said  Huncote. 

Sue  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Roger !  I  only  had  twopence !  " 

The  carter  began  again :  "  We  didn't  arsk  the  lady 
fer  nothin',  sir." 

The  facts  began  to  sort  themselves  out.  A  large  oak 
chest  they  had  bought  a  few  days  before  had  arrived. 
The  men  had  unpacked  it,  taken  it  up  to  the  first  floor 
and  moved  the  furniture  about  to  make  room  for  it. 
Then  Sue  had  given  them  twopence  to  share.  But 
while  he  pieced  this  together  the  row  continued,  and 
Rhoda  intervened. 

"  Please,  M'am,"  she  whispered,  "  if  I  give  them  a 
shilling  it'll  be  all  right." 

Sue  grew  scarlet  at  this  public  insult. 


HESITATION  30Y 

"  Who  told  you  to  interfere  ?  I  don't  want  any  of 
your  lip." 

"  Sue !  "  xcried  Koger,  horrified.  Then,  turning  to 
the  men,  he  gave  them  two  shillings.  The  door  closed, 
and  with  magical  skill  Khoda  disappeared. 

"Sue!     How  could  you  ?" 

She  was  still  flushed  and  still  kept  her  hands  upon 
her  hips. 

"  How  could  I  what  ?     Don't  see  what  I've  done." 

He  was  impatient. 

"  Sue,  you  must  know  twopence  wasn't  enough." 

"  They  ought  to  be  jolly  glad  to  get  twopence ;  might 
have  given  them  nothin'  if  I  liked." 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  you  had." 

"  Twopence  is  twopence,"  said  Sue,  and  it  hurt  him 
to  feel  that  to  her  twopence  was  still  horribly  twopence. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  you've  got  to  understand ; 
you've  got  to  tip  properly  or  not  at  all." 

Sue's  mouth  grew  tight,  and  she  looked  at  him,  hos- 
tile, from  under  her  brows.  "  Got  to  understand  ?  " 
she  said. 

«  Yes." 

"I  s'pose  you  think  I  don't  understand  anything; 
not  good  enough  for  you." 

"  Sue,  dear."  He  took  her  arm,  but  she  shook  him 
off  angrily.  At  that  he  lost  his  temper.  "  For  heav- 
en's sake,  don't  stand  like  that  with  your  hands  on  your 
hips ;  you  look  like  a  wash  .  .  ." 

Sue's  hands  fell ;  she  stood  away  from  him,  suddenly 
livid.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  like  a  washerwoman.  Is 
that  what  you  were  going  to  say  ?  "  He  was  frightened 
by  the  intensity  of  the  low  voice.  "  Like  a  washer- 
woman !  "  she  repeated. 

She  turned  and  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  it  was  cruel, 
it  was  tearing  to  hear  her  cry  as  she  went. 

It  was  a  terrible  evening,  and  Sue  got  her  first  lesson 
in  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  stoical  upper  ten  by 


308     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

being  curtly  told  to  dress  and  come  down  to  dinner  as 
usual.  They  ate  very  little  and  said  nothing  at  all; 
they  sat,  he  determined  and  feeling  as  if  frozen  stiff; 
she  rather  withdrawn  in  her  chair,  sullen,  determined 
not  to  look  at  him,  making  bread-pills  and  staring  be- 
fore her :  it  maddened  him  to  see  her  make  bread-pills. 
They  ended  their  dinner  without  a  word,  under 
Ehoda's  icy  chairmanship. 

They  tried  to  talk  a  little  in  the  evening,  of  what 
could  be  done  for  Perce  who,  it  seemed,  did  not  like 
the  new  office.  But  that  was  a  failure;  it  was  not  an 
abundant  topic.  Roger  read  out  a  few  scraps  from  the 
evening  paper;  he  nearly  asked  her  whether  she  would 
like  to  go  to  "  The  Sunshine  Girl "  but  stopped  just  in 
time,  determined  not  to  make  advances.  Towards  the 
end  of  the  evening  he  wanted  to  make  advances ;  he  felt 
that  however  right  he  might  have  been  at  bottom,  he  had 
lost  control,  he  had  been  unkind.  It  hurt  him  dread- 
fully to  see  his  dark  girl  who  could  be  so  tender,  like 
this,  silent,  with  downcast  eyes  and  a  heavy  mouth, 
abominably  civil  as  if  determined  to  show  him  she  could 
be  as  civil  as  he.  They  were  at  the  acutest  point  of  con- 
flict when  nothing  is  said,  when  nothing  is  conceded, 
when  there  is  no  promise  that  after  anger  will  come 
peace,  when  between  two  people  there  is  just  a  black 
blanket  of  difference. 

At  half-past  nine,  with  merely  a  "  good  night ",  she 
went  to  bed.  He  hesitated  as  he  opened  the  door. 
Never  before  had  she  gone  to  bed  without  kissing  him. 
He  felt  he  ought  to  kiss  her,  also  that  he  wanted  to  and 
yet  that  he  ought  not  to  want  to,  still  more  perhaps 
that  if  he  were  really  fine  he  ought  to  kiss  her  in  spite 
of  what  she  was.  But  the  emotion  was  too  complex, 
and  before  it  came  to  a  solution  the  door  closed  behind 
the  stately  sailing  past  of  her  sturdy  figure,  with  the 
high-held  head  that  suggested  insult  and  injury.  He 
went  out  for  a  very  long  walk  right  round  the  Gardens 


HESITATION  309 

and  Hyde  Park ;  he  wanted  to  tire  himself  out,  and  he 
wanted  to  think,  to  try  and  look  into  the  future  a  little. 
He  did  not  succeed;  facts  only  came  to  him  and  of 
facts  only  could  he  think  again  and  again  —  of  Sue 
telling  Rhoda  that  she  wanted  none  of  her  lip.  But 
towards  the  end,  as  he  came  down  Holland  Walk  that 
was  dark  and  full  of  the  peace  of  a  country  lane,  a 
walk  where  there  were  benches  snugly  hidden  and 
friendly  darknesses  from  which  came  the  soft  murmur- 
ings  of  lovers,  the  hardness  of  him  melted.  He  had 
been  hasty,  he  had  been  unjust.  He  was  full  of  pity 
for  himself,  full  of  pity  for  her,  full  of  fear  for  their 
joint  lives,  hardly  hopeful  that  he  could  make  of  them, 
even  by  patience,  even  by  skill,  what  Theresa  had 
promised.  Still,  as  he  put  the  latchkey  into  the  lock, 
he  thought :  "  There  it  is,  we  must  try." 

The  house  was  dark  and  he  went  softly  up  to  his 
bedroom.  Outside  Sue's  he  paused  for  a  moment;  he 
could  hear  nothing.  He  sighed ;  it  was  his  habit  every 
night  to  go  to  her,  to  hold  her  to  him  for  a  while,  per- 
haps without  speaking,  feeling  closer  to  her  in  the  dark- 
ness and  in  the  silence  when  they  were  just  man  and 
woman,  when  no  class,  no  custom,  nothing  intervened 
to  spoil  the  tendernes  of  their  clasp.  But  not  to-night ; 
he  felt  he  could  not  to-night.  To  do  such  a  thing  after 
such  events  would  have  spoiled  all  the  other  beautiful 
moments  by  making  the  exquisite  communion  into  a 
daily  convention. 

So  he  went  into  his  bedroom  and  slowly  undressed. 
But  in  his  pyjamas  again  he  thought:  "  I've  been  un- 
just. Perhaps  she's  awake,  thinking  just  that.  No, 
she  would  not  think  I'd  been  unjust;  she'd  think  I'd 
been  hard  on  her."  It  hurt  him  to  think  that. 
"  After  all,  one  of  us  must  make  advances ;  why  should 
it  be  she  ?  If  I'm  any  use  it  ought  to  be  I." 

He  slipped  on  his  dressing-gown,  very  softly  opened 
the  door.  His  plan  was  typical  of  him:  if  she  wag 


asleep  he  intended  to  sit  by  her  bedside,  holding  her 
hand  until  the  early  morning;  when  she  awoke  she 
would  see  him  and  understand.  He  was  still  Cardinal 
Quixote,  finding  romance  in  this  idea  of  a  lover  re- 
morsefully watching  by  the  bedside  of  his  beloved. 
But  when  he  opened  the  door,  he  found  that  she  was 
not  asleep;  he  could  see  her  head  outlined  against  the 
pillow,  a  great  mass  of  hair.  It  wrung  his  heart,  for 
she  was  lying  on  her  face,  clasping  the  pillow,  and  the 
room  was  all  filled  with  a  dreadful  little  choked  whim- 
pering that  came  to  him  muffled  by  the  pillow.  He 
ran  to  the  bed,  seized  her  roughly  in  his  arms,  and 
turned  her  to  him.  She  would  not  come  at  first;  she 
clung  to  the  pillow  in  which  still  were  stifled  her  sobs, 
but  at  last  she  seemed  to  grow  weak,  and  he  turned  her 
to  him,  holding  her  close.  As  the  pillow  fell  her  sobs 
became  loud.  She  was  wailing  like  a  baby,  with  her 
mouth  all  distorted ;  she  shook  against  his  breast. 

"  My  darling,"  he  murmured  into  her  hair.  He 
tried  to  say :  "  I've  been  a  brute  ",  but  he  could  not ; 
even  in  that  minute  he  was  not  sure  that  he  had  been 
unjust.  Little  by  little  her  sobs  grew  less,  became 
slight,  ended.  She  held  him  close  with  both  hands, 
content  and  at  rest,  or  perhaps  exhausted.  He  bent  to 
kiss  her  wet  face;  she  opened  her  eyes  and  drew  back. 

"  Oh,"  she  murmured,  "  I  ain't  good  enough  for  you, 
I  know  I  ain't." 

The  humility  and  the  sweetness  of  her  under  the 
untrammelled  grief  melted  him.  He  did  not  at  all 
understand  how  exasperated  and  unhappy  she  had  been, 
how  exiled,  how  lost  among  people  who  were  not  hers, 
with  strange  manners  and  hostile  customs;  he  knew 
only  that  she  was  sorry,  that  both  had  been  hasty,  cruel, 
childish. 

"  My  darling ! "  he  said  again,  and  kissed  her  with 
the  dull  certainty  of  the  male  who  believes  that  with 
a  kiss  he  can  heal  any  woman's  ills. 


HESITATION  311 

IV 

Mrs.  Groby  was  flustered  and  rather  hot.  Her 
daughter  and  her  son-in-law  could  not  cope  with  her 
indignation.  Even  her  bonnet  was  excited. 

"  !N^ever  heerd  of  such  a  thing.  Set  me  down  there 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  said :  '  You  follow  yer 
nose,  there's  plenty  of  it,'  an'  off  'e  goes ! "  She 
fanned  herself  violently  with  The  Daily  Mirror  and 
blew. 

"  But,  Mother,  you  ought  to  know  your  way  by  now," 
said  Sue. 

Mrs.  Groby  bridled  as  she  had  been  taught  to  do  by 
her  mother  in  old  Sussex  days. 

"  Well,  I  don't  need  you  to  teach  me,  Miss.  And 
that's  not  the  worst  of  it.  I  put  it  to  you,  Roger.  I 
got  inter  th'  Archway  bus  as  usual,  and  I  says  to  'im: 
'  Yer  put  me  down  at  Pembroke  Square,  young  man ! ' 
just  as  I'd  been  told.  I  thort  there  was  somethin' 
wrong,  I  did;  I  went  wand'rin'  round  and  round  all 
sorts  o'  places  called  Pembridge  something."  Huncote 
laughed.  "  You  may  laugh ;  'adn't  been  'ere  more'n 
once,  and  then  " —  her  tone  grew  serious  — "  only  w'en 
you  brort  me  in  a  taxicab." 

"  What  did  you  do  ?  "  asked  Huncote,  amused. 

"  I  got  inter  the  nex'  bus.  Dunno  w'ere  they 
git  their  conductors  from;  'ave  'em  made  to  order,  I 
should  think.  W'en  I  told  'im,  d'yer  know  wot 
'e  said  ? "  She  flushed.  "  Do  yer  know  wot 
'e  said  ?  'E  said :  *  You  should  give  up  the  drink, 
Mother!'" 

The  Huncotes  laughed. 

"  Well,  have  a  drink  of  tea,"  said  Eoger,  "  and  don't 
think  any  more  about  it." 

Mrs.  Groby  drank  her  tea,  accompanying  her  praises 
by  subdued  murmurs  and  sharp  inclinations  of  the 
head  to  which  the  bonnet  electrically  responded.  In 


312     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

her  mind  she  was  still  telling-off  that  young  man,  but 
the  tea  took  the  flow  out  of  her  ideas. 

She  was  alone  with  Sue  for  a  little  while  as  she  had 
to  be  shewn  the  house  over  again.  The  first  time  she 
had  been  overwhelmed;  this  time  she  was  a  little  cen- 
sorious. The  window  boxes  on  the  drawing-room  bal- 
cony in  which  the  bulbs  had  begun  to  flower  particularly 
irritated  her. 

"  Only  makes  dirt,"  she  murmured,  "  w'en  the  wind 
blows  in." 

She  disliked  also  the  famous  glass  shelves  in  the 
bathroom.  "  Wot'll  'appen  if  yer  go  in  in  the  dark  an' 
bang  yer  'ead  ?  " 

Sue  had  too  slender  a  grasp  of  her  own  establishment 
to  explain  that  she  had  servants  to  clear  up  the  dust 
from  the  window  boxes,  and  that  one  did  not  bang  one's 
head  when  there  was  electric  light.  Moreover,  she 
stood  in  considerable  awe  of  her  mother,  who  now  went 
round  the  house,  still  grumbling  at  the  chintzes  that 
were  too  light  and  would  soil,  at  the  lace  curtains  which 
could  not  save  one  from  being  overlooked.  She  was  in 
one  of  the  moods  that  often  affect  women  of  her  kind 
when  for  an  hour  at  a  time  children  are  taken  along 
the  street  to  the  accompaniment  of  much  scolding 
and  arm-dragging.  The  separate  bedrooms  especially 
irritated  her.  She  discerned  in  the  arrangement 
something  peculiarly  cold-hearted.  "  Might  as  well 
each  'ave  yer  own  'ouse  while  yer  about  it,"  she 
remarked. 

Sue  timidly  pointed  out  that  in  her  bedroom  there 
was  very  little  space  for  two.  "  Space  ?  "  Mrs.  Groby 
snarled.  A  vision  of  early  days  when  Groby  was  only 
a  labourer  and  she  gave  birth  to  three  children  in  the 
single  room  which  was  also  a  kitchen  deprived  her  of 
all  expression.  Besides,  Sue,  whom  this  still  embar- 
rassed, was  not  an  eloquent  advocate.  "  Treat  yer 
well  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Groby,  and  suddenly  before  the  girl 


HESITATION  313 

could  reply:  "Yer  look  bad,  a  bit  pulled  about  the 
eyes.  Still,  that's  nothing,  that's  the  spring.  'Ow 
d'yer  like  it  ?  " 

Sue  hesitated ;  she  was  not  used  to  expressing  strong 
emotions.  "  Oh,  it's  all  right,"  she  said  vaguely. 

Mrs.  Groby  laughed.  "  Well,  if  that's  all  yer've  got 
ter  say  fer  yerself !  Is  'e  fond  of  yer  ?  " 

Sue  blushed.  "  Don't  be  silly,  Mother ;  he  wouldn't 
have  married  me  if  he  weren't." 

Mrs.  Groby  nodded  a  great  many  times  as  if  she 
could  have  said  things  of  great  significance  and  then 
decided  not  to  say  them.  "  Expect  it's  all  right,"  she 
said,  "  can't  see  yer've  got  anythin'  to  grumble  about 
except  that  I  shouldn't  like  to  'ave  them  servants  about, 
myself,  spyin'  on  yer  and  always  wantin'  to  be  gaddin' 
about."  Mrs.  Groby  deeply  distrusted  strangers  under 
one's  roof. 

"  One  gets  used  to  it,  Mother,"  said  Sue,  very  staid 
and  suddenly  conscious  of  importance.  "  I  wouldn't 
like  to  have  to  do  the  housework  here  myself." 

"  You've  got  no  call  to  now.  Yer  a  lady  now  and 
don't  yer  forgit  it."  She  grew  thoughtful.  "  I  never 
should  'ave  thort  ter  see  a  daughter  of  mine  livin'  like 
this.  I  used  ter  think  —  but  there,  I  won't  talk  about 
it." 

They  grew  silent,  both  of  them,  for  Sue  understood 
that  her  mother's  memory  had  fled  to  Bert.  Mrs. 
Groby  had  always  thought  a  lot  of  Bert,  who  was  earn- 
ing good  wages  and  could  give  his  wife  two  rooms ;  she 
had  been  a  little  anxious  about  that,  for  she  "  did  not 
believe  in  children  beginning  where  their  parents  left 
off."  This  restored  intimacy;  it  was  as  if  the  past 
linked  mother  and  daughter,  which  the  present  could 
not  do.  Sue  showed  her  mother  some  of  her  clothes 
and  now  was  not  rebuked.  They  did  not  look  as  if 
they  would  wear  very  well,  Mrs.  Groby  thought. 
"  But  still  that's  wot  the  people  wear  who  are  photo- 


314     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

graphed  in  the  paper."  She  did  not  like  the  filmy  silk 
stockings  much. 

"  Like  wot  they  wear  on  the  stage,"  she  said. 
"  'Ardly  decent,  I  calls  it.  But  there,  yer  know  best 
now  yer  a  lady." 

Sue  did  not  care  to  show  her  her  latest  and  lowest 
cut  evening  frock.  There  was  trouble  enough  over  a 
lacy  nightgown.  "  Yer  can  do  wot  yer  like,  but  it's 
the  sort  o'  thing  that'd  be  worn  by  a  painted  Jezebel, 
wot  the  dogs  all  ate  up,  except  'er  'ands  an'  feet,  as  the 
Bible  says." 

Sue  was  glad  she  had  not  seen  the  evening  frock,  for 
it  was  not  only  low  cut,  but  also  so  designed  in  the 
skirt  as  to  expose  a  good  deal  of  silk  stocking. 

They  stayed  up-stairs  rather  a  long  time.  When 
they  came  down  they  were  at  peace  and  more  intimate, 
so  much  so  that  their  intimacy  endured  in  Roger's  pres- 
ence. News  was  given:  Grandpa  Challow  was  fail- 
ing. It  had  been  a  bad  year  for  the  bees  again,  and 
this  seemed  to  prey  upon  him. 

"  'Ad  a  bad  attack  of  religion,  'e  'ad ;  went  round 
the  village  singin'  a  song  about  layin'  up  treasure  in 
a  place  w'ere  the  moth  doth  not  rust  or  somethin'." 
(Mrs.  Groby's  scriptural  knowledge  was  patchy,  and 
her  quotations  generally  suggested  that  anything  out 
of  the  Bible  was  much  the  same  as  anything  else  and 
meant  nothing.) 

Huncote  remembered  the  gentle  old  man  with  the 
sweet  Sussex  drawl ;  he  would  not  hear  of  his  going  to 
the  workhouse. 

"  Give  me  his  address,"  he  said ;  "  he  must  be  looked 
after." 

Mrs.  Groby  and  Sue  looked  at  him  with  wide  admir- 
ing eyes  as  if  he  were  Merlin,  able  with  a  word  to 
create  wealth  and  ease.  To  look  after  Grandpa  Chal- 
low, together  with  all  he  was  doing!  Mrs.  Groby  felt 
the  need  to  render  up  accounts. 


HESITATION  315 

"Perce's  gettin'  on  all  right,"  she  said,  "thanks  to 
you, —  Roger."  (Slight  effort  over  Christian  name.) 
"  An'  no  wonder,"  she  added  proudly,  "  Vs  a  sharp 
boy;  Vs  keepin'  the  stamp-book  now  in  the  office,  and 
every  now  an'  then  he  says  ter  me,  'Mother,'  'e  says, 
'yer  can't  tell  wot  temptations  we  'as  with  all  them 
stamps  lyin'  about,'  but  Lor',  I  can  trust  'im." 

"  How's  Muriel  ?  "  asked  Roger. 

"  Learnin'  the  violin,"  said  Mrs.  Groby  proudly. 
"  Dunno  as  I  quite  like  it  either ;  she  'as  to  practise  in 
the  evenin',  an'  wot  with  that  an'  wot  with  the  cats  it 
drives  me  old  man  to  the  Red  Lion,  it  does."  She  grew 
grave.  "  Still,  that's  edication !  " 

Other  family  news  was  given:  it  appeared  that  the 
aristocratic  relative,  the  cook  in  North  Audley  Street, 
had  taken  to  noticing  the  Grobys  now.  "  But,"  said 
Mrs.  Groby,  "  that  won't  wash." 

There  was  a  moment  of  general  shrinking;  the  three 
felt  that  this  kind  of  metaphor  had  better  be  left  alone. 

"  After  giving  us  the  go-by  all  these  years,"  Mrs. 
Groby  went  on,  "  she's  not  comin'  along  velvet-pawin' 
me.  She  says  ter  me,  '  I  only  want  to  be  good  friends, 
I've  been  so  busy.'  '  Oh,'  I  says  to  'er,  I  says,  '  d'yer 
think  I've  forgotten  wot  yer  said  to  my  Aunt  Loo  w'en 
I  married  Charlie  ?  '  That  closed  'er  up.  It's  not  wot 
people  says  as  matters ;  it's  the  things  they  does !  'An'- 
some  is  as  'an'some  does!  Yer  won't  go  wrong  if  yer 
sticks  ter  that." 

The  cousin  who  taught  music  for  three  pounds  a 
week  had,  it  seemed,  also  reappeared.  They  wanted 
nothing  material  but  only  the  glamour  of  association 
with  the  promoted  Grobys.  But  Mrs.  Groby  was 
keeping  herself  to  herself  in  the  strictest  way. 

"  Makes  me  won'er  sometimes  'ow  some  people  'ave 
the  face.  Wouldn't  catch  me  doin'  things  like  that, 
making  up  to  people  wot  wasn't  good  enough  once  upon 
a  time."  For  a  moment  they  all  thought  of  the  strange- 


316     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

ness  of  life  and  the  variety  of  men  and  women,  and 
Mrs.  Groby  said :  "  Well,  well,  it  takes  all  sorts  to 
make  a  world."  Rhoda  came  in,  whispered  to  Hun- 
cote.  He  seemed  disturbed.  "  Oh,  very  well,"  he 
said,  "  you  did  quite  right." 

He  did  not  tell  Sue  when  Mrs.  Groby  had  gone,  after 
two  hours  and  apologising  because  she  had  to  go  now, 
and  must  go,  and  really  couldn't  stay,  that  Lady  Monta- 
cute  had  called  and  Rhoda  had  taken  the  responsibility 
of  "  not  at  home."  Huncote  administered  half  a 
crown,  but  at  bottom  he  hated  Rhoda ;  she  understood, 
and  it  was  well  she  understood,  but  how  dared  she 
understand?  To  understand  was  to  criticise.  He 
realised  suddenly  that  Theresa  was  right,  that  things 
could  not  go  on  like  this;  that  they  could  not  remain 
isolated  or,  alternatively,  be  hunted  by  one  class  while 
eluding  another.  One  day  the  classes  would  clash,  dis- 
like each  other,  and  in  their  anger  turn  upon  the  young 
people,  leaving  them  lonely.  For  a  moment  he  won- 
dered whether  he  would  not  be  happier  with  Sue  alone 
in  the  country  —  or  in  the  South  Sea  Islands.  He 
smiled,  for  Sue  had  read  The  Blue  Lagoon  and  thought 
it  lovely.  But  no,  it  was  too  late ;  they  were  civilised, 
they  were  people  of  the  town,  and  like  people  of  the 
town  they  must  live.  They  must  plunge  into  the 
"  giddy  social  vortex  ",  they  must  "  entertain  ",  they 
must  "  see  life  "  ;  they  must  affront  the  complexities  of 
class,  the  gorgeousness  of  society, —  they  must  ask  six 
people  to  dinner. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIED 

THE   LAJfD    OF    DOUBT 


SUE  sat  at  the  gate-leg  table,  more  than  usually  em- 
barrassed by  the  disposal  of  her  feet  because  she  was 
generally  embarrassed.  Before  her  lay  a  great  quan- 
tity of  paper  and  envelopes,  and  pens  so  constructed 
that  the  ink  persisted  in  running  up  them.  She  was 
writing.  She  leapt  to  her  feet,  crumpled  up  the  letter 
into  a  ball  and  flung  it  to  the  ground.  "  That's  three," 
she  murmured.  She  felt  inclined  to  weep,  rubbed  one 
eyelid  and  inked  it.  "Oh!"  she  thought.  "What 
shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?"  And  wondered: 
"  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  have  mattered.  There  was  only 
one  blot  on  that  one."  For  a  moment  she  surveyed  the 
dining-room  with  an  air  of  dismay  as  if  she  were  locked 
up,  like  a  little  girl  who  has  been  naughty  and  is  writ- 
ing out  an  impost.  But  there  lay  the  paper  and  the 
paraphernalia,  and  Chambers's  Dictionary  wide  open; 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  on. 

So  rather  wearily  she  sat  down  again  and  once  more 
began : 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Forncett, 

"  My  husband  asks  me  to  say  that  though  I  have  not 
yet  had  the  pleasure  .  .  ." 

She  consulted  the  letter  which  Roger  had  given  her 
to  copy.  Obviously  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you. 
Roger  wrote  rather  badly,  she  thought.  How  did  one 


318     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

spell  '  meeting '  ?  She  thought  for  a  moment.  "  One 
spelled  '  meat '  m-e-a-t.  Still,  it  didn't  look  like  an 
'  a '  quite."  She  looked  it  up  in  the  dictionary  and 
then  for  a  moment  wondered  why  "  meat "  should  be 
spelt,  m-e-a-t  and  "  to  meet,"  m-e-e-t  Seemed  silly 
like.  Still  there  it  was  in  print  and  there  you  were. 
So  she  wrote : 

".  .  .  of  meeting  you.     He  thinks  you  will  not  mind 
my  waiving  formality  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  pause  to  consider  once  more  what  Roger 
meant  by  waving  formality  about;  she  had  given  that 
up.  She  finished  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Forncett.  There 
was  no  blot.  She  held  it  away  from  her  rather  proudly, 
this  curious  combination  of  good  stiff  paper  and  round 
handwriting  with  a  steady  if  insidious  slope  to  the 
left.  She  wondered  why  Roger  could  not  have  written 
the  letters  himself,  he  did  those  things  so  easily, 
and  she  thought  how  wonderfully  clever  he  was.  But 
he  had  said  that  the  hostess  must  do  that  and,  of  course, 
he  knew  best.  So  she  began  again :  she  asked  Mr.  Chur- 
ton ;  she  asked  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lucien  Cadoresse,  a  little 
more  easily  because  she  had  met  Mrs.  Cadoresse.  She 
had  been  tempted  to  keep  Theresa  until  the  last  because 
that  would  be  easy  and  perhaps  Theresa  would  not  mind 
a  blot,  but  a  sort  of  Puritanism  made  her  choose  the 
harder  way.  And  so  you  will  imagine  her  as  for  a  time 
the  curtain  falls,  a  small  sturdy  figure  lost  in  a  room 
too  tidy,  fettered  in  a  gown  too  tight,  the  tip  of  its  tongue 
protruding,  swaying  a  little  as  it  writes : 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Cadoresse, 

"  My  husband  and  I  will  be  very  pleased  .  .  ." 

with  an  air  of  determination  in  which  there  is  some 
awe  and  a  little  pain  .  .  . 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          319 

II 

Never  so  well  as  that  evening  had  Sue  seen  Sir 
Lucius,  Sir  R.  His  new  evening  clothes  had  so  mani- 
festly been  made  for  him.  He  had  come  in  to  see  her 
while  she  dressed  and  looked  too  wonderful  to  kiss. 
That  tie  and  waistcoat  so  white,  why  one  dared  not  even 
blow  on  them.  Nor  had  he  stayed,  for  Rhoda  was 
watchful  and  reliable.  He  went  down  into  the  dining 
room  that  looked  so  official,  with  the  table  entirely  ob- 
structed with  everything  that  one  wants  for  dinner  and 
so  many  things  that  one  does  not.  It  looked  so  solemn 
like  that,  empty,  with  the  chairs  waiting  and  the  napery 
shining  under  the  light,  the  big  bowl  of  violets  and  the 
crowding  pepper  and  mustard  pots.  It  looked  so  com- 
plex, the  dumb  waiter  with  its  filled  decanters  and,  it 
seemed,  the  endless  stores  of  knives  and  forks,  the  con- 
cealed bottles  and  jugs  and  jars. 

Yes,  it  looked  all  right ;  Ethel  was  no  fool.  He  had 
had  hot  consultations  with  Ethel  and  Mrs.  Beeton.  Be- 
tween them  and  Mrs.  Beeton  they  had  bought  enough 
cream  for  a  regiment.  They  had  dealt  with  the  quanti- 
ties of  Mrs.  Beeton  in  her  famous  gallon  and  hundred- 
weight style.  They  had  wavered  over  salmon  trout, 
quarrelled  over  larks  and  quails.  Of  course,  as  this 
happened  in  Pembroke  Square,  Kensington,  saddle  of 
mutton  slunk  in.  And  the  imported  waitress  had  de- 
parted the  day  before  to  bury  a  relative,  while  the 
substitute  seemed  dangerous:  the  door  to  the  basement 
was  open,  and  he  could  hear  her  breaking  below.  Yes, 
it  looked  all  right,  but  there  were  a  few  little  things  he 
missed,  not  that  he  had  ever  noticed  them  before :  salted 
almonds  and  crystallised  violets.  He  felt  their  absence 
as  one  might  feel  the  absence  of  one's  tie:  it  does  not 
keep  one  warm  but  it  is  there.  Yes,  he  had  forgotten 
crystallised  violets.  It  was  too  late  now.  Still,  it 
would  not  matter;  Forncett  was  always  thinking  of 


320     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

something  else  and  Mrs.  Forncett  talked  too  much  to 
have  time  to  eat. 

But  it  was  a  nuisance  about  Cadoresse,  though;  he 
was  such  a  priceless  nut.  It  might  be  all  right,  for 
Cadoresse  had  advised  him  about  port,  having  decided 
when  he  naturalised  to  become  a  connoisseur  of  port. 
He  sighed  and  vaguely  thought :  "  I  wish  it  was  a 
quarter  past  eleven !  "  But  as  it  was  then  only  a  quar- 
ter to  eight  he  went  up  to  inspect  the  drawing-room.  It 
looked  very  much  like  the  ordinary  kind  of  drawing- 
room,  chintzy,  all  that.  It  lacked  something,  though, 
he  thought ;  he  did  not  fancy  the  flowers  much.  There 
were  narcissi  and  jonquils,  and  a  big  bowl  full  of  hya- 
cinths. It  struck  him  vaguely  that  he  would  have  liked 
more,  that  somehow  all  this  lacked  fullness.  Yes,  there 
were  not  enough  flowers.  Confound  it !  Why  hadn't 
he  done  them  himself  ?  Why  hadn't  Ethel  known  bet- 
ter? For  a  moment  he  remained  blaming  Ethel  and 
Sue,  unable  to  understand  the  class  of  Ethel  —  and  Sue, 
their  inability  to  buy  things  which  did  not  last,  that 
merely  pass,  making  grace.  He  remained  for  a  long 
time  warming  himself  and  thinking  vaguely  that  it  was 
rather  complicated  all  this :  very  necessary  of  course  and 
amusing.  Still,  still  .  .  . 

Then  his  sense  became  active,  for  through  the  house 
echoed  the  piercing  whirr  of  the  bell :  first  guest. 

Ill 

It  was  only  eighteen  steps  from  the  hall  to  the  dining 
room,  but  it  was  a  very  long  time.  Eoger  had  leisure 
to  think  of  the  funny  little  battle  he  had  had  with  Sue 
over  this  dinner,  a  struggle  where  she  gave  way  and  yet 
resisted  all  the  time,  like  a  child  that  has  a  pain  inside 
and  believes  the  medicine  will  do  it  good,  yet  turns  away 
from  it  because  it  is  nasty.  It  was  all  so  new  to  her,  so 
different,  this  sort  of  thing.  Her  tradition  laid  down 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          321 

that  one  did  not  entertain  strangers.  Now  and  then 
one  had  relatives  in  and  perhaps  one  intimate,  prefer- 
ably engaged  to  a  member  of  the  family ;  this  happened 
strictly  at  Christmas  or  when  there  was  a  wedding  or  a 
funeral  in  the  family;  a  birthday  provided  a  reason 
only  if  it  were  the  birthday  of  a  grandfather  or  a  grand- 
mother, something  official.  The  few  visitors  she  had 
been  allowed  to  meet  frightened  her  because  she  sus- 
pected them :  what  did  they  want,  rushing  into  the  house 
like  that  ?  And  the  loose  way  in  which  they  asked  her 
to  go  and  see  them,  people  she  did  not  know,  shocked 
her.  Of  course  it  was  all  right,  it  was  fast,  rakish, 
Ada  Nuttallish,  only  it  took  some  getting  used  to.  He 
did  not  understand,  and  she  could  not  explain,  so  they 
confronted  each  other  full  of  narrow  determinations  and 
dull  obstinacies,  erecting  barriers  where  they  wanted  to 
build  level  crossings,  unable  to  see  each  other's  point  of 
view  because  they  were  not  conscious  of  their  own. 
They  were  young,  not  deliciously  but  deplorably.  They 
were  even  too  young  to  be  ready  to  give  each  other  a 
chance  to  grow  up. 

But  the  door  opened  and  Sue  came  in,  a  little  breath- 
less ;  he  just  had  a  glimpse  of  her  in  the  audacious  gown 
that  Mrs.  Groby  had  not  been  allowed  to  see.  She 
wore  the  draped  evening  frock  of  the  day,  made  mainly 
of  cream  ninon,  with  a  charmeuse  silk  underskirt,  cream 
also,  thinly  striped  with  orange ;  the  hips  were  draped  in 
orange  chiffon  which  ran  up  under  the  corselet  and  re- 
peated itself  in  touches  under  the  short  sleeves  that 
hardly  veiled  the  sturdy  arms.  Sue  was  horribly  con- 
scious of  her  body  that  night,  for  never  before,  even  in 
summer  time,  had  she  glimpsed  her  own  upper  arm  when 
clad.  And  she  shrank  a  little,  contracting  her  chest, 
because  the  orange  and  gold  band,  which  the  Russian 
ballet  had  inspired,  lay  so  perilously  low  across  her 
breast.  The  artistic  feeling  of  that  year,  so  curiously 
compounded  of  Victorian  sedateness  and  Tartar  fantasy, 


322     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

was  in  her  little  black  shoes  and  cream  stockings  with 
which  clashed  buckles  of  orange  Russian  enamel.  It 
was  Theresa's  work,  and  as  Sue  came  in  smiling,  a  little 
flushed,  her  face  like  a  very  dark  rose  under  her  heavy 
hair,  she  was  charming,  for  she  was  southern  and  yet 
had  no  boldness.  Yes,  Theresa  had  done  her  work  well 
except  .  .  .  He  felt  a  discomfort  he  could  not  analyse, 
something  wrong.  But  the  door  at  once  opened  before 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Forncett.  Introductions.  A  painful 
moment,  for  Sue  said :  "  Pleased  to  meet  you !  "  But 
Mrs.  Forncett  was  either  a  woman  of  the  world  or  had 
not  heard,  for  she  began  to  talk  while  Sue  replied. 
Roger  found  himself  having  with  Forncett  his  usual 
conversation,  which  was  nothing  much  as  Forncett  never 
spoke  unless  greatly  provoked.  But  it  did  not  matter ; 
as  Roger  searched  his  brain  for  something  to  say  about 
painting,  which  was  supposed  to  be  Forncett's  subject, 
he  could  hear  Mrs.  Forncett  raising  an  agreeably  social 
disturbance : 

"  What  a  pretty  room !  I  love  chintzes,  don't  you  ? 
They  make  a  room  so  bright,  don't  you  think  so  ?  I'm 
so  glad  those  black  cretonnes  with  green  leaves  didn't 
catch  on.  Of  course  it's  all  right  in  a  large  room.  You 
face  west,  don't  you  ?  So,  of  course,  you  get  the  after- 
noon sun ;  so  nice  at  tea,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

Sue  said  "  Yes ",  but  it  did  not  matter,  for  Mrs. 
Forncett  added  rather  unexpectedly :  "I  wonder  when 
we  shall  get  rid  of  this  dreadful  Government  ? " 

Forncett  had  at  last  managed  to  get  out  a  question: 
Whether  Roger  didn't  find  the  spring  very  trying. 
Roger  said  "  Very  ",  and  a  little  later,  as  Forncett  went 
on  with  the  subject,  replied  to  the  same  question: 
"  Not  at  all."  His  state  of  mind  was  rather  compli- 
cated, for  he  was  thinking  at  the  same  time  of  what  to 
say  to  Forncett  whose  acquaintance  he  had  slid  into 
when  the  painter  was  at  work  for  fun  on  scenery  to  be 
used  in  a  Settlement  performance,  and  of  what  was 


323 

wrong  with  Sue.  She  had  turned  away  from  him  and 
sat  on  the  sofa,  completely  blockaded  by  Mrs.  Forncett 
whose  agitated  mouth  was  delivering  upon  her  hostess  a 
perfect  bombardment.  He  saw  her  neck  and  for  a  sec- 
ond thought  it  beautiful.  Then  he  had  a  curious  sensa- 
tion for  which  he  could  not  find  a  word.  Or  was  it 
the  wrong  word  —  something  like  "  bedizenment "  ? 
Then  Theresa  came  in,  which  complicated  the  situation. 
He  was  frankly  happy  to  see  her  and  was  conscious  of  a 
difference  between  her  and  the  two  women.  There  was 
something  elusive  about  the  long,  supple  figure.  Very 
thin,  very  long-armed,  very  white  in  a  black  silk  gown 
without  a  waist,  touched  in  unexpected  places  with  little 
rosettes  of  red  and  silver.  It  was  strange,  that  gown 
with  the  rosettes  at  the  breast  and  those  two  others 
placed  at  the  knees.  She  looked  of  this  world  and  of 
another,  like  a  saint  with  a  sense  of  humour.  Sue  had 
not  risen  when  Theresa  came  in,  and  that  irritated  him. 
So  he  went  to  her,  rather  effusive,  feeling  awkward  after- 
wards, as  if  he  had  held  just  a  second  too  long  the  slim, 
rather  hard  hand.  And  Sue  seemed  to  have  noticed 
too :  for  the  first  time  there  was  in  her  voice  something 
cold,  faintly  hostile,  and  yet  Theresa  smiled  her  own 
smile,  frank  and  just  a  little  tortured.  The  Cadoresses 
were  announced.  They  too  were  new  acquaintances,  for 
Lucien  Cadoresse,  once  a  Frenchman  and  now  violently 
naturalised,  had  for  a  while  haunted  St.  Panwich,  in- 
tending to  become  its  Liberal  member  of  Parliament  or 
its  Conservative  one,  whichever  was  the  more  difficult. 
He  had  created  such  uneasiness  in  the  bosom  of  Platt  by 
threatening  to  run  Labour  and  split  the  Radical  vote 
that  Huncote  had  fallen  rather  in  love  with  him.  He 
was  thirty-two,  a  ship-owner,  rather  rich  and  bound  to 
be  richer;  the  combination  of  his  acquired  English 
weightiness  with  his  irresistible  French  mischievousness 
amused  Huncote.  Those  two  came  in  as  if  announced 
by  muted  trumpets,  for  Cadoresse  could  not  travel  with- 


324     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

out  trumpets;  but  twelve  years  of  England  had  taught 
him  to  have  them  ,muted.  He  came  in,  very  dark,  very 
moulded  in  very  new  clothes,  his  trousers  pulled  rather 
high  so  as  to  expose  his  passionate  black-and-white  socks. 
He  did  not  bow,  he  said  "  Good-evening  "  like  an  autom- 
aton. His  moustache,  once  luxuriant,  had  suffered  the 
military  crop  of  the  English  officer.  And  little  Mrs. 
Cadoresse,  four  years  a  matron,  yet  still  a  bride,  so 
white,  so  wondering-blue-eyed,  so  flaxen-crowned,  fol- 
lowed him,  smiling  and  hesitant,  as  if  always  she  had 
followed. 

The  room  was  full  of  chatter  now,  for  Mrs.  Cadoresse, 
sweet  and  shy,  had  instinctively  taken  up  Forncett  be- 
cause he  looked  so  Spanishly  dark,  so  lonely  and  un- 
happy, as  if  he  wanted  somebody  to  talk  to  him.  Eoger 
was  reminded  of  a  picture  that  Sue  admired:  a  dark 
young  Italian  bending  in  a  garden  over  a  fair  girl; 
it  was  called,  "  First  Words  of  Love."  Theresa  was 
smiling  at  Mrs.  Forncett  in  what  Mrs.  Forncett  probably 
thought  was  a  cordial  way.  Eoger  knew  that  she  was 
very  much  amused.  And  Cadoresse,  emphasising  his 
air  of  English  languor,  stood  behind  the  sofa  talking  to 
Sue,  looking  at  her  so  steadily  with  eyes  at  once  fiery 
and  cold  that  she  felt  awkward.  Sue  looked  at  him 
sideways  now  and  then ;  she  vaguely  felt  that  he  under- 
stood her.  Indeed  he  asked :  "  Ever  go  to  the  pictures, 
Mrs.  Huncote?  ISTo?  Oh,  I'm  dead  nuts  on  them." 
She  could  hardly  make  it  out,  the  slanginess,  the  head 
voice  of  the  gentleman,  and  the  taste  which  was  so 
subtly  her  own.  She  did  not  realise  that  this  women's 
man  had  at  once  gauged  her,  assumed  her  tastes  to  please 
her,  nor  did  she  see  the  contrast  as,  Theresa  speaking  to 
him,  he  remarked :  "  Cubism  ?  Merely  a  normal  reac- 
tion from  Futurism,  from  the  exaggerated  worship  of 
movement  .  .  ." 

But  Eoger  was  still  uneasy.  It  was  the  three  women 
helped  him  to  understand  at  last.  While  Churton,  who 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          325 

had  just  come  in  with  a  face  that  should  have  compelled 
him  to  turn  his  collar  front  to  back,  asked  him  what  he 
had  been  doing  and  made  him  realise  that  during  the 
last  six  months  he  had  had  very  little  to  do  with  the 
Settlement,  his  thoughts  took  form.  They  ran  on  a 
double  line.  He  realised  a  sort  of  backsliding  in  his 
activities.  He  had  neglected  the  Settlement,  had  done 
other  things :  walked  about,  read  novels,  gone  more  often 
to  the  club,  even  played  bridge  in  the  afternoon.  But 
much  more,  while  Churton  tried  to  approve  of  conduct 
that  he  blamed,  Roger  looked  at  the  three  women  and 
then  at  Sue.  They  seemed  so  severe  by  the  side  of  his 
bird  of  paradise, —  Mrs.  Forncett  with  her  two  or  three 
rings  and  a  single  diamond  as  pendant,  Theresa  wearing 
but  one  jewel,  a  heavy  gold  ring  with  a  green  scarab,  and 
little  Mrs.  Cadoresse,  so  virginal  with  only  her  wedding 
ring  and  a  half -hoop,  and  round  her  slender  neck  a  single 
row  of  small  pearls.  He  had  not  felt  it  long  before  the 
others  felt  it  too,  and  somehow  fate  was  unkind  to  Sue, 
for  Churton  called  to  Forncett  across  the  room  to  settle 
some  difference  between  him  and  Huncote  as  to  the  de- 
sign of  the  new  frescoes  in  the  lecture  hall.  For  a  mo- 
ment Sue  was  alone  with  the  three  women,  conscious  a 
very  little  of  Lucien  Cadoresse  who  talked  carelessly,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  her  shoulders,  conscious  very  much  more  of 
a  staring  sort  of  difference  between  her  and  them.  It 
was  not  clothes.  Her  strong  dark  hands  clasped  on  her 
lap  showed  her  that  she  wore  three  diamond  rings  on  one, 
an  emerald  ring  upon  the  other,  that  on  both  her  wrists 
were  bracelets,  all  her  bracelets.  She  felt  a  heat  rise 
up  her  body,  her  neck,  there  to  bring  out  yet  more 
her  emerald  necklace,  her  pendant  of  ruby  and 
pearl  .  .  . 

Both  together  Sue  and  Roger,  they  saw,  or  rather, 
they  felt.  For  a  fraction  of  a  second  they  two  were 
divorced  from  those  six  guests  and  communicated 
through  a  sort  of  ether  a  mixture  of  hatred  and  dismay. 


326     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

And  yet  Sue  did  not  understand  the  subtle  message. 
She  knew  that  she  was  different  and  she  thought : 

"  I  wonder  why  they  stare  like  that.  I  s'pose  they 
haven't  got  as  much  jewellery  as  me  .  .  ."  For  a  sec- 
ond she  was  vulgar  and  thought:  "Well,  I'm  a  lady 
now."  But  something  else,  deep  in  her,  that  was  tender 
and  sweet,  said :  "  Poor  things !  What  a  shame  they 
shouldn't  have  jewellery  too.  I  wish  I'd  known,  I 
wouldn't  have  put  it  on ;  it's  so  hard  on  them  to  let  them 
see  it.  If  only  I'd  known  ..." 

Rhoda  was  on  the  stairs,  preparing  to  announce  that 
dinner  was  served.  She  paused,  for  her  mistress  rushed 
out  of  the  drawing-room,  and  as  she  passed  mumbled: 
"  Forgotten  my  handkerchief.  Hold  on !  " 

They  filed  down  the  stairs,  two  by  two.  It  was  only 
as  they  collected  around  the  table,  looking  for  their  seats, 
that  Roger  noticed  a  difference  in  Sue.  All  the  rings 
had  gone  except  the  wedding-ring ;  even  the  engagement 
ring  had  been  shed.  There  was  no  pendant  now  and 
only  one  bracelet.  He  did  not  know  that  Sue  up-stairs 
had  stripped  herself  of  every  trinket,  then  put  on  a  few 
of  them  again,  rather  at  random,  wept  a  few  tears  and 
powdered  herself  over  the  traces  of  the  weeping  so  hur- 
riedly that  her  eyelashes  were  all  white.  He  had  time 
for  anger,  but  not  for  thought:  dinner  had  begun,  and 
he  had  his  part  to  play. 

He  realised  after  a  while  that  he  had  not  been  very 
successful  in  the  geographical  distribution  of  his  guests, 
for  he  had  placed  the  two  most  talkative  women  to  his 
own  right  and  left  while  giving  Sue  the  most  difficult 
man,  Churton,  in  the  hope  that  St.  Panwich  would  yield 
them  something  in  common.  He  felt  all  the  pangs  of 
the  host,  for  he  wanted  to  talk  to  Theresa  upon  his  left, 
while  Mrs.  Forncett,  who  sat  on  his  right,  was  deter- 
mined to  talk  to  him.  Mrs.  Cadoresse,  who  seemed 
much  too  young  to  be  married,  was  doubtless  having  a 
dreadful  struggle  with  Forncett,  as  usual  too  tired  to 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          327 

talk.  He  felt  easier  about  Cadoresse,  for,  after  all,  the 
fellow  was  a  sort  of  Frenchman  and  would  not  notice  too 
great  a  strangeness  in  Sue's  conversation.  But  he  did 
not  have  much  time  to  think,  for  the  dinner,  skilfully 
marshalled  by  Ehoda  and  the  waitress,  was  progressing 
with  the  swiftness  which  an  ostentatious  tradition  has 
taught  to  the  domesticity  of  England.  Never  before 
had  he  been  conscious  of  the  machinery  of  a  dinner- 
party, which  is  so  like  a  military  action.  He  could  feel 
the  dishing-up  below,  at  the  base ;  then  the  dishes  came 
up  the  stairs  along  the  lines  of  communication,  har- 
moniously deployed  upon  the  dumb  waiter  to  come  into 
action  one  by  one  at  their  regular  time,  flanked  at  the 
exact  moment  by  the  proper  wine.  It  relieved  him  to 
feel  it  all  going  smoothly,  to  know  himself  in  the  hands 
of  skilled  people  who  condescended  to  pretend  that  he 
was  their  master.  But  he  could  not  dwell  long  upon 
this,  for  Mrs.  Forncett,  a  little,  dark,  active  woman, 
was  determined  to  talk  about  golf.  She  played  at  Bich- 
mond  and,  being  as  well  practised  in  dinner  conversa- 
tion as  in  the  use  of  golf  clubs,  she  at  once  dug  him  out 
of  concealment,  compelled  him  to  discuss  the  inconveni- 
ence of  clay  links.  He  agreed,  and  they  bewailed  the 
rarity  of  sand  links  near  London. 

"  I'm  thinking  of  joining  Sandy  Lodge,"  said  Mrs. 
Forncett.  "  Why  don't  you  become  a  member  too  3 
You'll  be  able  to  protect  me  then.  They  treat  women 
so  badly  in  golf  clubs." 

He  agreed,  and  for  a  long  time  they  analysed  the  limi- 
tations of  play  imposed  on  women  until,  little  by  little, 
the  conversation  threatened  to  veer  to  feminism.  But 
nothing  helped  him.  He  was  the  host  and  too  watchful ; 
his  eyes  roved  to  see  that  all  had  what  they  wanted ;  to 
see  whether  they  were  enjoying  themselves  or  at  least 
looking  as  if  they  were.  He  could  hear  every  conversa- 
tion, Theresa  who  had  gallantly  broken  through  Forn- 
cett's  crust  of  silence  and  after  leading  him  to  the  new 


328     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

developments  in  painting,  which  was  easy  as  that  year 
there  was  a  new  development  every  week,  had  passed  to 
music  and  was  discussing  Scriabin.  He  heard  her. 

"  Of  course  I  went  to  Prometheus.  I  even  went 
twice,  as  the  programme  told  me  to." 

Forncett  murmured  something  about  ravings. 

"I  don't  quite  think  that,"  said  Theresa.  "Only 
there's  a  sort  of  over-sensitiveness  which  you  can't  ren- 
der in  music,  and  Scriabin's  trying  to  .  .  ." 

He  could  hear  Mrs.  Cadoresse  and  Churton  too. 
They  had  got  on  to  Settlement  work  and,  judging  from 
the  comparative  animation  of  Churton's  face,  he  was 
trying  to  persuade  her  to  help : 

"  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't,"  said  Mrs.  Cadoresse. 
"  You  see,  Lucien,  my  husband  I  mean  —  I  don't  think 
he  likes  social  work  much."  Churton  looked  indignant. 
"  I  used  to  do  some  slumming,"  said  Mrs.  Cadoresse, 
"  when  I  was  a  girl.  We  all  did." 

She  looked  reflective  as  if  still  a  young  English  girl 
who  did  everything  that  was  done  and  ceased  to  do  it 
when  it  ceased  to  be  done. 

All  this  time  he  was  conscious  of  Sue,  of  her  jewels. 
It  was  obsessing.  Now  and  then,  as  the  dinner  went  on, 
he  lost  this  peculiar  sensitiveness  and  talked  whole- 
heartedly to  Mrs.  Forncett. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  want  to  give  up  golf ;  I 
really  am  fond  of  it  for  I  used  to  play  at  Oxford,  and 
you  know  how  a  fellow  gets  ragged  if  he  cares  for  any- 
thing but  the  boats,  footer  or  cricket." 

"  That's  very  interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Forncett. 
"Why?" 

To  his  annoyance  he  had  to  explain  why,  but  he 
wanted  to  talk  to  Theresa  who  for  a  moment  had 
turned  away  from  Forncett;  he  wanted  to  say  something 
simple  and  laughing,  something  sincere,  silly,  like  a 
playful  touch  of  a  hand,  just  to  feel  near  somebody  in 
this  formal  isolation.  But  he  lost  his  chance,  and  time 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          329 

went  on;  he  caught  snatches  of  conversation,  a  debate 
across  the  table  as  to  whether  the  tango  was  immoral  and 
whether  certain  American  states  were  right  to  prohibit 
the  turkey  trot  and  the  bunny  hug.  He  wanted  to  watch 
Sue,  to  hear  what  she  was  saying,  but  that  was  impos- 
sible for  she  spoke  too  low,  and  Cadoresse  had  turned 
towards  her,  shutting  her  off  a  little  while  he  talked. 
Eoger  was  troubled :  what  could  she  be  saying  ?  Cador- 
esse, he  knew,  was  a  man  who  went  about  a  good  deal ; 
he  was  French,  but  he  had  been  a  long  time  in  England ; 
his  wife  was  the  daughter  of  Lawton,  the  Under-Secre- 
tary,  so,  of  course,  he  met  everybody.  It  was  horrible 
to  think  that  he  might  be  making  comparisons  between 
Sue  and  those  other  women. 

The  little  smile  upon  Sue's  lips  and  the  nervous  play 
of  her  hands  on  the  knives  and  forks  might  indeed  have 
deceived  him ;  perhaps  he  would  not  have  been  deceived 
if  he  could  have  heard  Cadoresse  talking  to  her.  He 
might  have  understood  had  he  remembered  Hilda's  con- 
versation at  the  summer  social,  and  "  Cadress  the 
Frenchy  "  who  had  picked  her  up  while  conducting  po- 
litical investigations  in  St.  Panwich. 

Sue  was  uncomfortable  at  first,  and  Cadoresse  wick- 
edly increased  that  discomfort  by  asking  her  whether  she 
knew  that  the  Parisian  women  were  bleaching  their  hair 
white  and  wearing  yellow  fox  furs.  And  wasn't  it 
awfully  jolly,  and  ripping,  and  other  emphatically  Eng- 
lish questions.  She  just  managed  to  say  that  she  did 
not  fancy  herself  white  before  her  time,  only  to  be  told 
that  it  would  be  a  pity  to  exchange  the  starless  night  of 
her  hair  for  the  pallor  of  dawn.  She  looked  up  at  him 
shyly  and  said:  "Why,  that's  like  poetry."  He 
laughed.  He  told  her  she  looked  like  a  French  girl, 
being  so  dark,  and  talked  to  her  about  France  and 
Paris. 

"  Of  course  you've  been  on  the  Boulevards  ?  "  he  said, 
"  and  isn't  the  opera  lovely  ? " 


330     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Her  eyes  shone ;  she  had  been  in  Paris  on  her  honey- 
moon, and  this  was  meeting  a  friend.  She  did  not  know 
that  Cadoresse  smiled  at  her  quietly,  and  how  careful  he 
was,  naming  just  the  one  or  two  streets  and  the  one  or 
two  places  which  an  English  tourist  would  remember. 
They  talked  of  Paris  for  a  long  time  and  in  a  moment 
Sue  felt  that  she  knew  it  well,  that  she  was  a  travelled, 
important  young  woman,  for  still  Cadoresse  led  her 
only  to  places  and  things  that  she  knew.  He  gave  her 
no  chance  to  feel  ignorant  or  humble.  She  looked  up 
gratefully  at  the  women's  man. 

She  felt  quite  familiar  with  him,  he  seemed  to  under- 
stand her.  She  was  not  at  all  afraid  of  him  for  he 
seemed  so  —  well,  one  might  almost  cheek  him.  She 
drank  another  glass  of  hock  to  which  she  was  ill-accus- 
tomed and,  a  little  later,  when  bending  closer  to  her,  he 
said :  "  Your  frock's  lovely ;  you  look  like  a  pale 
flame,"  she  laughed  and  replied  with  a  twinkle  that  was 
almost  a  wink :  "  Why  this  thusness  ?  "  She  felt  quite 
Ada  Nuttallish  as  she  said  that.  And  Cadoresse  did  not 
seem  to  mind;  he  understood  her  so  well,  it  seemed. 
He  was  so  ready  to  join  her  upon  her  own  ground.  She 
did  not  realise  how  well  he  knew  her,  her  class,  her 
tastes,  her  hopes,  her  ambitions,  her  awkwardnesses,  and 
the  way  to  win  her  a  little.  She  said,  quite  childishly : 
"  Mr.  Huncote  says  we're  to  have  a  little  car."  He 
noted  the  painful  "  Mr.  Huncote  ",  but  replied,  quite 
seriously :  "  And  very  nice  too."  She  threw  him  a 
quick  look,  not  understanding  why  she  liked  him,  feel- 
ing only  that  somehow  there  was  here  an  echo  of  a  life 
long  dead  and  somewhat  regretted.  He  was  still  flatter- 
ing her  and  she  was  not  afraid.  It  did  not  occur  to 
her  to  be  afraid  of  him;  why  should  she?  He  was 
married,  wasn't  he  ?  So,  of  course,  he  could  not  mean 
anything.  Besides,  when  a  man  came  after  one,  well, 
one  knew  it.  She  was  not  quite  sure  whether  she  liked 
men  when  they  came  after  one,  they  were  so  violent  and 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          331 

determined.  This  Frenchman  seemed  quiet  and  de- 
tached, so  of  course  he  could  not  be  dangerous. 

Kow  and  then  she  looked  at  Roger,  who  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  himself  with  the  little  dark  woman;  she  did 
not  half  like  the  idea  of  having  strange  women  in  the 
house  like  this  when  you  knew  nothing  about  them. 
She  rather  hated  Mrs.  Forncett,  and  Theresa  too.  Mrs. 
Cadoresse,  she  thought,  looked  at  Roger  too  much,  and 
smiled  too  much.  Sue  was  jealous,  she  was  full  of  the 
primitive  possessiveness  of  her  class  that  finds  it  so 
difficult  to  understand  social  relations  and  their  genial 
falsity.  What  was  hers  was  hers ;  what  she  wanted  she 
would  take ;  if  these  women  looked  as  if  they  wanted  to 
take  it  must  be  that  they  did  want  to  take.  She  was  all 
instinct,  she  was  too  true. 

And  so  the  dinner  wound  on  to  its  end,  with  Cadoresse 
lazily  playing  the  fish  he  did  not  want,  and  Roger  con- 
scious, through  Mrs.  Forncett's  eternal  conversation, 
of  a  grave  discussion  at  the  other  end,  between  Churton 
and  Mrs.  Cadoresse,  as  to  the  fate  of  the  Scott  Expedi- 
tion and  the  value  of  polar  exploration. 


IV 

Sue  was  alone  with  the  women.  She  was  afraid.  It 
had  not  been  so  bad  down-stairs,  with  that  Frenchman 
making  up  to  her,  and  the  other  men  to  see  what  she 
vaguely  felt  was  fair  play.  And  there  had  been  Roger 
too,  though  he  looked  rather  coldly  at  her ;  but  then,  he 
always  looked  cold.  As  she  went  up-stairs  with  the 
women,  in  the  middle  because  she  did  not  know  whether 
she  ought  to  go  first  or  last,  she  thought  of  him  so  hand- 
some, so  secure.  Though  she  feared  him  that  night  and 
knew  that  in  his  heart  he  was  angry  with  her  about  the 
jewellery,  she  thought  him  wonderful.  For  Roger  was 
still  enjoying  the  rarest  fruit  of  matrimonial  victory: 


332     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

he  was  still  to  his  wife  Madoc  ap  Gwynedd,  the  perfect 
prince. 

But  it  was  different  with  the  women  alone,  and  she  no 
longer  a  woman  with  men  who  could  tolerate  and  excuse 
just  because  she  was  a  woman  and  pretty ;  she  was  only 
a  human  creature  with  other  human  creatures  who  made 
no  allowances,  indeed  who  were  ready  to  handicap  her. 
She  felt  all  this  which  she  did  not  know,  competition 
among  women,  fear  of  age,  readiness  to  slay  a  rival. 
And  yet  she  was  fortunate,  for  Mrs.  Forncett  was  too 
pronounced  a  golfer  to  be  a  woman  quite,  while  Theresa 
was  too  handsome,  Edith  Cadoresse  too  tender,  to  wish 
her  ill.  Only  they  were  women,  and  they  had  to  fight 
the  sex  battle. 

She  struggled  over  the  coffee  cups ;  they  were  still  too 
small  for  the  bits  of  sugar.  She  sat  upon  the  sofa, 
where  she  had  been  told  to  sit,  with  the  three  women 
around  her,  waiting  for  her  to  do  the  hostess-like  thing. 
For  a  dreadful  moment  she  felt  herself  sitting  there  with 
her  mouth  open,  nothing  whatever  in  her  head,  and 
Theresa  watching  her  with  that  horrid  humorous  air  of 
hers;  she  rather  hated  Theresa,  she  thought.  It  was 
Mrs.  Forncett  saved  the  situation,  not  because  she  was 
much  more  sensitive  than  a  buffalo,  but  because  she 
wanted  to  talk.  She  engaged  Theresa  with  great  vigour 
on  massage,  Swedish  exercises,  Miiller  exercises,  and 
many  other  exercises  destined  to  make  a  figure  where 
there  wasn't  one.  So  Sue  was  thrown  on  Mrs.  Cador- 
esse. She  thought  her  rather  sweet,  with  her  pale  corn 
hair  and  her  eyes  like  Channel  mist.  They  began  to 
talk  of  the  spring.  Mrs.  Cadoresse  said : 

"  It  makes  one  feel  so  young,  don't  you  think  ?  With 
everything  green  and  crisp  and  hard,  and  the  sun  set- 
ting later." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sue  thoughtfully,  "  the  days  are  drawing 
out." 

Mrs.  Cadoresse  took  no  notice,  and  for  a  while  they 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          333 

talked  of  spring  in  London.  Sue  thought  she  was  get- 
ting on  very  well  now,  but  Mrs.  Cadoresse  wandered  on 
to  the  country  and  to  the  seaside,  to  Brighton,  to  Italy, 
to  all  sorts  of  complicated,  expensive  places  against 
which  a  brief  honeymoon  in  Biarritz  did  not  long  avail. 
Sue  felt  strained  as  if  she  were  playing  a  part  without 
being  word-perfect.  She  was  so  afraid  of  putting  her 
foot  in  it  that  she  hardly  dared  to  walk. 

The  conversation  strayed  to  clothes  and  the  spring 
fashions.  Here  at  last  was  a  hyphen,  for  Mrs.  Forncett, 
having  caught  Mrs.  Cadoresse's  remark  that  the  new 
hats,  with  the  gauze  crown  exposing  the  hair,  only  suited 
fair  women,  vigorously  fell  foul  of  her,  while  Theresa, 
who  did  not  view  clothes  quite  in  the  same  way,  also 
joined  in.  It  went  on  for  a  long  time,  the  argument 
being  that  black  hair  under  blue  gauze  was  quite  as 
attractive  as  fair  hair  under  black  gauze.  She  dared 
make  no  comments,  for  the  only  thing  she  could  think  of 
was  seeing  these  hats  from  the  tops  of  buses,  and  that 
could  not  be  a  refined  contribution  to  the  debate.  So 
she  listened,  rather  admiring,  while  they  discussed  the 
steady  rise  of  the  slit  in  the  skirt,  for  this  was  becoming 
more  emphatic  as  draping  replaced  the  hobble  of  the 
year  before.  Once  only  did  Sue  become  evident  when 
she  enunciated  a  prejudice  against  shoes  with  fancy 
edges.  But  Mrs.  Forncett  was  not  interested:  the  ex- 
citement of  dinner  was  working  in  her,  and  she  was  pass- 
ing from  clothes,  as  clothing,  to  clothes  as  lure : 

"  Yes,  I'm  quite  sure  the  V's  going  to  be  deeper  this 
season.  I'm  very  glad,  there's  nothing  like  a  deep-cut 
blouse  to  keep  you  cool."  She  laughed.  "  And  if  our 
blouses  get  V-er  and  V-er  downwards,  and  our  skirts  get 
V-er  and  V-er  upwards,  what'll  happen,  I  really  don't 
know.  Still,  thank  heaven  for  silk  stockings.  All  sins 
grow  excusable  if  you  make  the  temptation  strong 
enough." 

Mrs.  Cadoresse  looked  slightly  shocked,  but  Theresa 


334     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

laughed,  and  Sue,  who  did  not  understand,  decided  to 
laugh  too.  Mrs.  Forncett,  thus  applauded,  developed 
her  theme. 

"  We've  got  on  in  clothes,"  she  said.  "  Our  grand- 
mothers used  to  see  how  much  they  could  put  on;  we 
experiment  to  find  out  how  much  we  can  do  without." 
She  grew  reflective.  "  It's  nice  to  think  you  no  longer 
need  to  wear  any  underclothes." 

This  time  Sue  knew  that  her  mouth  was  really  wide 
open.  Theresa  smiled. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  quite  agree  with  you ;  it's  so 
much  easier  to  drape  the  human  figure  from  the  nude 
than  from  the  clad." 

The  disappearance  of  the  petticoat  was  discussed,  but 
Sue  was  much  more  shocked  by  Theresa  than  by  Mrs. 
Forncett ;  it  seemed  such  a  horrid  way  to  put  it,  to  talk 
of  dressing  from  the  nude.  She  was  much  less  offended 
by  Mrs.  Forncett's  suggestiveness.  Indeed  she  quite 
liked  Mrs.  Forncett's  story  about  the  girl  who  was  angry 
at  the  dance  because  her  partner  brought  her  lemonade. 
She  was  easy,  anyhow;  one  could  talk  with  her.  She 
was  not  like  Mrs.  Cadoresse  who  always  seemed  to  be 
sizing  you  up  like  a  possible  parlourmaid.  And  The- 
resa too  embarrassed  her  because  she  saw  something 
funny  in  everything.  But  now  she  had  to  talk  to  The- 
resa, for  Mrs.  Forncett  was  trying  to  convert  Mrs. 
Cadoresse  to  sartorial  depravity.  Theresa  said: 

"Well  .  .  .  Happy?" 

Then  Sue  knew  that  she  was  really  fond  of  her.  If 
Theresa  had  said,  "  How  are  things  ? "  or  "  How  are 
you  getting  on  ? "  she  would  have  felt  patronised  and 
angry.  But  this  was  different ;  it  was  Theresa's  gentle- 
ness under  Theresa's  lightness. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  one  has  one's  ups  and  downs,  but 
still  I'm  all  right." 

"  I'm  glad,"  said  Theresa. 

She  knew  the  truth  that  lay  under  the  awkwardness. 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          335 

Sue  found  herself  easy  again  and  suddenly  realised  how 
straining  it  had  been  all  that  evening  to  hear  talk  and  to 
talk  about  foreign  places  that  she  had  not  been  to,  plays 
she  did  not  understand,  frocks  she  did  not  wear,  a  life 
that  was  not  hers.  She  wanted  to  open  to  some  one  who 
really  understood  her,  not  like  Cadoresse,  as  a  woman, 
but,  like  Theresa,  as  a  human  being.  She  whispered : 

"  It's  a  little  difficult  sometimes.  I  don't  know  why. 
I  never  seem  to  do  anything  quite  right." 

"  How  quite  ?  "  asked  Theresa. 

"  Well,  I  always  have  to  be  told." 

Theresa  laughed.  "  But  you  couldn't  know  without 
being  told,  could  you  ?  " 

Sue  looked  gloomy.  "  I  dunno,  but  I  feel  I  ought 
to." 

Something  hurt  Theresa  inside,  for  that  was  the  truest 
thing  Sue  had  ever  said;  she  was  groping  for  the  in- 
stincts of  a  well-bred  woman  which  alone  could  help  her 
in  unexpected  difficulties,  and  she  did  not  possess  them. 
She  had  to  go  about  life  in  an  armour  of  rules,  and  it 
was  heavy.  Theresa  took  the  brown  hand  and  pressed 
it.  She  said  nothing,  but  Sue  felt  tears  very  near  her 
eyes.  "  How  silly !  "  she  thought.  "  There's  nothing 
to  cry  for,  is  there  ?  "  But  still  she  blinked  vigorously. 

Mrs.  Forncett  was  now  talking  of  cosmetics.  It 
seemed  Madame  Mendelssohn  alone  had  the  secret  of  lip 
salve;  Chariot  et  Caillon  were  hopeless.  It  sounded 
very  Ada  ISTuttallish. 

The  evening  dragged  when  the  men  came  in.  Roger 
looked  so  hostile,  so  different  He  was  Roger,  not  one's 
husband.  One  was  anxious  when  he  was  about;  one 
might  not  be  doing  right  for  one  didn't  want  to  hurt 
him,  and  one  did  so  want  to  be  a  lady. 

Mrs.  Cadoresse  sang  extraordinary  songs:  it  was  no 
good  trying  to  catch  the  tune.  Sue  read  the  title  of  one 
of  them:  " Ich  grolle  nicht,"  whatever  that  might 
mean.  And  Theresa  played ;  it  was  easier  to  catch  that 


336     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

music,  though  some  of  her  songs  too  were  in  foreign  lan- 
guages. She  caught  two  French  words :  "  charmante 
Gdbrielle  "  and,  realising  that  these  meant  "  charming 
Gabrielle  ",  felt  a  little  better.  There  was  not  much 
talking  in  the  intervals,  merely  appreciative  murmurs 
and  musical  discussions  about  people  called  Chikeawsky 
and  Mosert.  One  didn't  know  what  it  all  was  about. 
At  last  Mrs.  Cadoresse,  on  Roger's  request,  played  some- 
thing by  a  man  called  Barsch  which  had  no  beginning 
and  no  end,  and  was  all  middle,  and  always  seemed  to 
begin  again  when  it  looked  like  going  to  stop  .  .  . 

They  all  went  rather  suddenly  about  ten  minutes  past 
eleven,  at  the  end  of  the  musical  orgy.  In  Sue's  ears 
rang  a  familiar  tune,  for  she  too  loved  music  in  her  way. 
It  filled  her  ears,  her  brain,  and  all  of  her  as  gleefully 
she  sang  it  to  herself,  the  old  familiar  tune : 

"  Liza's  tootsies,  Liza's  feet, 
You  can  bet  they'll  take  the  cake 
Will  Liza's  plates  of  meat." 


She  was  relieved  when  they  left :  the  deepest  delight 
of  a  hostess  is  to  get  rid  of  her  guests.  She  said : 

"  Well,  it  didn't  go  off  half  badly." 

Roger  stared  at  her  moodily  and  for  some  moments 
did  not  reply.  Suddenly,  as  if  something  burst  within : 

"  What  the  devil  d'you  mean  by  coming  down  to  din- 
ner looking  like  Spink's  show  case  ?  " 

"  Spink  ?  »  said  Sue  blankly. 

"  What  d'you  mean  by  covering  yourself  all  over  with 
buckles  and  rings  and  things  ?  Don't  you  know  better 
by  now  ?  "  He  was  trembling.  He  loathed  himself  al- 
ready and  yet  could  not  stop. 

"  You  didn't  .  .  ." 

"  No,  I  didn't  tell  you ;  of  course  I  can't  tell  you 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          33T 

everything.  Didn't  you  see  how  those  other  women  were 
got  up  ?  They  knew  better  than  to  put  on  six  rings  and 
five  bracelets." 

"  Three  bracelets,"  said  Sue  miserably,  "  I've  only 
got  three." 

Roger  clenched  both  fists. 

"  I  s'pose  you'd  have  worn  ten  if  you'd  had  ten  ? 
Really,  this  is  intolerable." 

For  a  long  time  she  watched  him  walk  up  and  down 
the  drawing-room,  raving  at  her,  vowing  she  was  un- 
teachable,  that  she  didn't  listen,  that  she  didn't  care. 
That  they  might  as  well  go  and  bury  themselves  in  the 
country  if  she  was  going  to  make  herself  ridiculous  every 
minute.  He  was  very  handsome,  she  thought,  when  he 
was  angry,  and  she  was  so  humble  that  she  could  not  be 
angry  too:  he  knew  best.  But  still,  she  felt  unfairly 
treated,  and  she  could  not  say  so  because  she  lacked 
words,  and  there  he  was,  shouting  at  her,  not  giving  her 
a  chance.  For  a  moment  she  was  tempted  to  resist 
him. 

"What's  the  good  of  having  dimuns  if  you  can't 
wear  'em  ? " 

But  he  only  raged  more  furiously.  It  seemed  that 
diamonds  were  only  to  be  worn  sparingly,  judiciously. 
That  there  were  occasions  for  no  jewellery,  and  occasions 
for  a  little  jewellery,  and  probably  occasions  for  a  little 
more.  Sue  felt  that  life  was  very  complicated,  and  how 
was  one  to  know?  She  couldn't  explain.  When  she 
tried,  it  was  like  explaining  the  plot  of  three  plays  mixed 
with  one  cinema  film.  And  still  the  sense  of  unfairness 
was  upon  her.  She  had  not  worn  all  those  things  at 
dinner,  she  had  taken  them  off.  She  said : 

"  But,  Roger,  I  went  up-stairs  and  I  took  off  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  that  makes  it  still  worse.  If  you  had  made  a 
fool  of  yourself  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  stick  it  out, 
instead  of  drawing  everybody's  attention  to  yourself." 

"  There's  no  pleasing  you,"  said  Sue. 


338     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

The  misery  in  her  voice  and  the  neighbourhood  of 
tears  sobered  her  husband.  He  said : 

"  Why  •  did  you  run  up-stairs  and  take  them  off  ?  " 
For  a  second  he  was  hopeful.  "  Did  it  strike  you  that 
you'd  done  the  wrong  thing  ?  " 

She  did  not  understand  his  hopefulness,  so  she  did 
not  tell  the  lie  which  would  have  made  peace ;  she  told 
the  truth,  so  much  less  useful  between  husband  and 
wife. 

"  Well,  I  thought,"  she  said,  "  you'd  been  very  kind 
to  me,  giving  me  all  those  things.  They  hadn't  got 
any" 

"  Well  ? " 

"Well,  I  thought  it  didn't  look  nice  of  me  —  well, 
you  see  .  .  ."  The  sentence  tailed  off. 

He  did  not  understand  at  all.  "  Not  nice  ?  No,  of 
course  not,  but  what  d'you  mean  ?  " 

"  What  I  say,"  said  Sue,  suddenly  taking  refuge  in 
dignity  as  she  found  clarity  impossible. 

"  Don't  say  that !  "  shouted  Roger.  "  For  heaven's 
sake  don't  let's  have  any  more  of  those  ready-made 
phrases.  Say  what  you  mean." 

"  I  have,"  said  Sue. 

He  rushed  to  the  door,  shouting :  "I  can't  stand  any 
more  of  this."  But  he  turned,  came  back,  suddenly 
ashamed,  as  if  he  had  struck  a  child.  He  took  within 
his  her  hands  which  were  rigid  and  retracted,  as  if  they 
hated  his  contact. 

"  Sue,"  he  murmured,  "  my  darling,  do  try  to  under- 
stand. I  don't  want  you  to  think  me  cruel  to  you,  only 
I  do  want  you  to  see  that  you  mustn't  show  off  like  that, 
show  off  your  jewellery  to  other  women.  It's  not  nice." 

Then  Sue  began  to  weep.  "  I  didn't  want  to  show  off 
—  It's  just  what  I  didn't  want  to."  For  a  few  moments 
she  could  not  speak,  so  thickly  did  she  weep.  At  last 
in  gasps,  while  he  held  her  close,  she  managed  to  mur- 
mur :  "  That's  why  I  went  up  —  they  didn't  have  no 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          339 

bracelets  —  they  —  I  didn't  want  them  to  —  it  might 
hurt  their  feelings." 

He  was  silent  and  moved ;  he  understood  at  last  how 
the  little  tragedy  arose;  he  understood  much  too  late, 
as  men  will,  that  Sue's  flight  and  sudden  discard  of 
jewels  were  due  just  to  that  delicate  feeling  which  he 
desired  in  another  form.  It  was  cruel :  wishing  to  please 
him  by  decking  herself  out  she  had  offended  him ;  wish- 
ing to  spare  other  women,  poorer  or  less  beloved,  she 
had  become  ridiculous  in  their  eyes ;  by  being  so  delicate 
as  not  to  tell  him  frankly  what  had  moved  her  so  to  act, 
she  had  angered  him.  He  was  very  unhappy,  and  yet 
faintly  he  hated  her  because  she  had  made  him  unjust 
in  his  own  eyes.  He  was  exasperated,  he  was  afraid  of 
the  future,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  he  was  charmed  and 
moved.  So,  unable  to  say  anything  that  could  help 
much,  he  held  her  close  and  kissed  her  until  she  was 
comforted.  He  could  not  reason ;  he  wanted  to  comfort 
her  because  thus  only  could  he  comfort  himself.  And 
he  had  but  one  thought  in  his  pity:  eyes  that  I  have 
kissed  shall  not  weep. 

VI 

"  Yer  look  like  two  pen'orth  o'  Gawd  'elp  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Groby. 

"  Everything  seems  all  right,"  said  Sue  sulkily. 

"  All  is  not  gold  that  glitters,"  replied  Mrs.  Groby. 

Sue  said  nothing,  for  evidently  that  sort  of  remark 
was  final,  so  Mrs.  Groby  went  on,  by  which  is  not  meant 
that  she  went  on  talking  but  that  she  "  went  on."  It 
appeared  that  Sue  had  black  rings  under  her  eyes  and 
looked  starved,  that  she  had  nothing  to  say  for  herself. 
Mrs.  Groby,  having  got  to  the  end  of  these  complaints, 
uttered  them  over  again.  She  then  became  gynecologi- 
cal. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Sue,  "  it's  not  that." 


Mrs.  Groby  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  "Quite 
sure?  You  been  married  eight  months;  there  ort 
t'  be  somethin'  on  the  way."  She  became  facetious. 
"  That'll  put  you  right,  and  'im  too  w'en  Vs  got  to 
walk  up  an'  down  the  passage  all  night  with  the  twins 
'owlin'." 

Sue  did  not  reply  and  with  apparent  irrelevancy  said : 

"  I  say,  Ma,  I  wish  you'd  tell  Perce  not  to  send  me 
picture  postcards." 

Mrs.  Groby  looked  a  little  surprised,  as  she  did  not 
connect  this  remark  with  her  prophecy  of  Roger  and  the 
howling  twins. 

"  Postcards  ?  "  she  said,  rather  aggressively.  "  'Ow  ? 
'Go's  been  sendin'  you  postcards  ?  " 

«  Perce." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't 'e?" 

"  Not  that  sort." 

Mrs.  Groby's  eye  lit  up.  "  Yer  don't  mean  ter  say 
Vs  been  sendin'  you  pictures  of  .  .  ."  (A  vision  of  the 
Scarlet  Woman  arose  in  her  mind)  ..."  bally  girls  ?  " 

She  laughed ;  it  was  so  like  Ma  to  think  of  ballet  girls 
in  that  eighteen-seventy  way  of  hers,  as  if  she  did  not 
know  that  nowadays  the  chorus  was  all  the  go. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  that's  not  it,  only  —  he  sent  me  that 
one  of  the  men  near  the  pub,  the  lilies  of  the  valley. 
You  know,  the  one  signed,  l  Cynic ',  or  l  Cynical '  or 
something." 

"Yes?"  said  Mrs.  Groby. 

"  Well,  it's  not  nice.     Eoger  didn't  like  it." 

"Oh,  'e  didn't,  didn't  'e?"  said  Mrs.  Groby. 
"  There's  many  a  thing  a  'usband  doesn't  like,  Sue,  but 
Vs  got  to  lump  it.  'E's  your  brother." 

Sue  grew  obstinate. 

"  Him  being  my  brother  doesn't  give  him  leave  to 
make  —  She  hesitated  between  "  dissensions  "  and 
"  distortions  " — "  well,  trouble  between  me  and  Eoger." 

"  Wot's  'e  been  sayin'  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Groby.     She  was 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          341 

angry ;  she  was  not  going  to  have  her  son-in-law  "  come 
it "  over  her  son,  even  if  he  was  right.  "  A  joke's  a 
joke.  If  'e  sends  you  somethin'  naughty,  you  tell  me, 
an'  I'll  skin  'im  alive  even  if  'e  is  fifteen.  But  I  don' 
see  wot  yer  makin'  such  a  song  and  dance  about." 

"  Eoger  doesn't  like  it,"  said  Sue. 

"  Well,  Vll  'ave  to." 

"  No,  he  shan't  lump  it.  I'm  s'prised  at  you,  Ma, 
after  all  he's  done  for  you." 

Mrs.  Groby  drew  herself  up.  Her  voice  blended  sor- 
row with  dignity.  "  I  thort  it'd  come  t'  that,"  she  said. 
"  Now,  she's  throwin'  'is  money  inter  me  teeth.  I 
didn't  arsk  'im  for  'is  money,  y'ort  t'  know.  We're' 
'ard-workin'  people ;  I  didn't  arsk  'im  for  a  bloomin'  tea 
set." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  the  tea  set,  Ma ;  you  know  I  didn't 
mean  that.  Only  when  you  think  he's  got  Perce  that 
job  and  that  Muriel  won't  have  to  do  any  work  like  I 
did,  and  that  there  she  is  like  a  lady  at  the  academy  — 
Well,  you  might  do  what  I  ask." 

Mrs.  Groby  changed  her  line. 

"  'As  'e  been  givin'  yer  the  what  for  ?  When  I  see  a 
girl  'umble  like,  that's  wot  I  always  thinks."  She 
looked  at  her  daughter  more  closely.  "  You  been  'avin' 
a  bit  of  a  dust  up  at  'ome ;  that  true  ?  " 

"  One  has  one's  ups  and  downs,"  said  Sue  ungra- 
ciously. 

"  Mostly  downs,"  said  Mrs.  Groby.  "  I  know,  I 
been  married  twenty-two  years."  She  grew  reflective. 
"  Seems  longer.  But  wot's  the  trouble  ?  'E  don't  lift 
'is  elbow?" 

"  Ma !     How  can  you  ?  "  said  Sue,  disgusted. 

"  They  all  does  more  or  less,"  said  Mrs.  Groby,  who 
knew  the  world.  "  Unless  they  runs  after  other  women. 
One  or  t'other,  you've  got  the  opshon,  sometimes  it's 
both.  And  then  you're  lucky  w'en  you  don't  get  a  clip 
on  the  ear." 


342     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

She  felt  it  impossible  to  explain  that  hers  was  not 
primitive  marriage  as  practised  in  St.  Panwich.  She 
need  not  have  troubled,  for  Mrs.  Groby  was  not  attack- 
ing man  very  bitterly.  "  That's  the  way  men  are,  but 
yer  can't  do  without  'em."  She  grew  sentimental.  "  I 
always  says  there's  somethin'  about  a  man  —  makes  a 
difference  like  in  the  'ouse.  So  you  must  put  up  with 
it,  as  they  says  in  the  marriage  service.  You  give  'im  a 
good  old  talkin'  to  now  and  then  w'en  you  get  'im  in  bed 
and  'e  wants  to  go  to  sleep;  that's  the  time.  A  man 
ain't  'ardly  dangerous  w'en  'e  ain't  got  'is  trousers  on ; 
'e  can't  get  away." 

Sue  laughed.     "  I'll  remember,  Ma." 

The  conversation  grew  more  harmonious.  Sue  felt 
comfortable  in  the  kitchen;  she  did  not  mind  being 
scolded,  for  was  not  this  her  own  mother  who  had 
brought  her  up  by  scolding  and  arm-dragging  for  the 
first  five  years  of  her  life  and  by  scolding  for  the  next 
fourteen  ?  What  was  home  without  a  good  old  talking- 
to  ?  She  even  tried  to  explain  what  had  happened  be- 
tween her  and  Roger.  She  found  that  difficult  as  she 
was  not  used  to  explaining.  As  for  Mrs.  Groby,  she 
understood  not  at  all. 

"  I  don't  see  wot  yer  mean.  Wot's  'e  give  you 
di'mon's  for  if  'e  don't  want  yer  to  wear  'em  ?  Not  as 
I  think  you  ought  t'ave  'em,"  she  added.  "  Di'mons 
always  makes  me  think  of  them  painted  'ussies.  You 
know,  the  flashy  sort  in  the  Euston  Road."  She  grew 
thoughtful.  "  But  that  ain't  anythin'  to  wot  they  are 
in  the  Tottenham  Court  Eoad ;  they're  the  'igh-steppers, 
they  are."  Sue  blushed.  "  Don't  see  wot  yer  blushin' 
for ;  you're  a  married  woman,  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  Still,  Ma,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  about  them ;  it's 
not  nice." 

"  My !  "  said  Mrs.  Groby.  "  We're  quite  the  lady, 
ain't  we  ?  Still,  talkin'  about  wot  we  was  talkin'  about, 
I  don't  see  wot  you  mean.  Ladies  wears  di'mons,  don't 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          343 

they?  Tho'  'ow  yer  tell  them  from  'ussies,  I  don't 
know." 

"  You  hardly  can,"  Sue  whispered. 

All  her  puritanism  came  to  the  top,  and  for  some  min- 
utes in  low  voices  mother  and  daughter  discussed  Mrs. 
Forncett's  terrible  conversation  about  low  blouses  and 
the  proper  use  of  lip  salve.  Mrs.  Groby  was  shocked 
and  delighted :  that  sort  of  thing  made  you  realise  that 
the  pictures  you  saw  in  The  Daily  Mirror  were  true. 
At  last  she  offered  Sue  a  cup  of  tea. 

While  Mrs.  Groby  got  the  tea  Sue  enjoyed  a  senti- 
mental journey.  Things  had  not  altered  much  in  Para- 
dise Row,  for  Huncote  had  thought  it  best  to  let  his 
new  family  alone  and  to  remain  behind  them,  a  sort  of 
St.  Anthony  of  Padua,  to  be  called  up  if  wanted.  Be- 
yond the  job  for  Perce  he  had  given  an  annual  allowance 
for  Muriel's  education.  Mrs.  Groby  had  received  a  ten- 
pound  note  to  buy  some  new  furniture.  But,  of  course, 
she  did  not  buy  it.  Huncote  had  had  a  vision  of  the 
rising  poor,  rising  through  the  medium  of  a  new  bedroom 
carpet  and  a  spring  mattress.  Only  he  did  not  like  to 
interfere,  and  the  ten  pounds  were  not  used  for  these 
purposes:  there  had  been  a  great  feast,  enriched  by  a 
middle  cut  of  salmon  and  unlimited  grocer's  port.  And 
Mrs.  Groby  had  bought  an  imitation  Crown  Derby  tea 
set  from  Bubwith's  show  case  which  had  haunted  her 
for  twenty  years.  An  impulse  of  prudence  caused  her 
to  buy  twenty-five  sevenpenny  insurance  stamps  for  the 
probable  time  when  Mr.  Groby  would  be  out  of  a  job, 
but  the  rest  had  gone  in  Mrs.  Groby's  equivalent  of  wine 
and  women. 

So  Sue's  sentimental  journey  could  indeed  be  per- 
formed. There  was  the  kitchen  range  with  the  broken 
brick  at  the  back;  it  had  always  been  broken  and  so 
remained  because  Mr.  Groby,  being  a  stonemason,  was 
not  doing  any  work  in  his  off-time.  It  was  better  so; 
the  broken  brick  was  home.  There  was  Perce's  bed, 


344     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

with  a  caster  off,  and  the  worn  place  on  the  boards. 
She  went  into  the  room  she  had  so  long  shared  with 
Muriel. 

It  moved  her.  Under  the  short  leg  of  the  washstand 
was  still  the  tile.  "  His  Majesty  the  Baby "  hung 
over  the  mantelpiece,  but  Muriel  had  removed  Miss 
Gertie  Millar  and  put  up  Mr.  Gerald  du  Maurier  in- 
stead. That  was  a  pity.  Sue  sighed:  how  things 
changed!  Still,  such  was  life.  She  was  glad  to  gaze 
once  more  upon  Great-aunt  Elizabeth's  mourning  card. 
But  Muriel's  taste,  now  untrammelled,  had  injured  a 
little  the  old  atmosphere;  Muriel  had  been  learning 
things  at  the  academy:  here  was  a  coloured  print  of 
Vera  Fokina,  engaged  in  what  Muriel  called  the  Rus- 
sian bally.  Evolution !  Fortunately,  near  the  picture, 
there  was  a  large  packet  of  chocolate  and  peppermints. 
Sue  helped  herself  to  peppermints  as  she  walked  round 
the  room.  The  fragrance  of  peppermints  brought  up 
the  good  old  times,  nearly  nine  months  old;  so  old. 
She  determined  to  go  into  Fuller's  as  she  went  home 
to  buy  some  peppermints  for  private  debauches.  The 
past  was  strong  upon  her :  just  for  fun  she  struggled  with 
the  chest  of  drawers,  and  it  thrilled  her  to  feel  that  the 
drawers  would  not  open,  just  as  used  to  happen  in  the 
old  dead  days  of  misty  grace  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  Ma !  "  said  Sue.  "  How  could  you  ?  " 
The  whole  of  the  Crown  Derby  tea  set  stood  upon  the 
table  which  shone  because  Mrs.  Groby  had  polished  it 
with  a  wet  rag.  It  looked  wonderful,  blue  and  gold,  and 
Mrs.  Groby  had  already  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea,  black 
as  ink.  There  was  a  loaf  upon  a  blue-and-gold  platter 
and  a  fainting  lump  of  margarine  in  its  dish.  Mrs. 
Groby  sat  behind  her  table  and  her  tea  set,  hands  crossed 
upon  her  belt.  She  was  beaming.  She  ought  to  have 
had  a  cap  and  a  large  tabby  cat.  She  looked  like  a 
picture  in  the  Eoyal  Academy,  entitled  "  The  Cottage  " 
or  "  Home  Sweet  Home." 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          345 

Sue  did  not  see  anything  jarring  in  this  stateliness, 
but  she  was  disappointed. 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't,  Ma,"  she  murmured.  "  You  see, 
I  wanted  to  have  it  like  we  used  to,  out  of  the  old  brown 
teapot." 

"  It's  got  a  broken  spout,"  said  Mrs.  Groby. 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  Sue,  "  broken  spout  and  all, 
like  it  used  to  be." 

"  But  the  teacups  don't  match !  "  cried  Mrs.  Groby,  in 
despair,  for  her  effect  had  failed. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Sue,  "  they  didn't  use  to  match. 
I  used  to  have  a  pink  one,  you  remember?  And  the 
white-and-gold  ones,  they  aren't  all  gone,  are  they  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Groby,  "  they  ain't.  But  I  don'  see 
wot  you  want  'em  for." 

"  Just  as  it  used  to  be,"  Sue  murmured  again.  "  You 
might,  Ma,  just  for  once." 

She  was  sentimental,  but  she  was  all  soft  and  melting 
inside,  as  if  the  old  simple  past  laughed  and  wept 
together  in  her  ears,  the  old  beautiful  past  when  —  well, 
you  knew  what  you  were  up  to. 

"  There's  no  pleasin'  you,"  said  Mrs.  Groby,  "  now 
you've  become  a  lady." 

But,  still  grumbling  and  protesting,  she  brewed  Sue  a 
special  cup  of  tea  in  the  brown  teapot  with  a  broken 
spout.  She  clearly  looked  upon  this  as  a  fine  lady's 
fancy.  If  Mrs.  Groby  had  been  a  historian  she  would 
have  thought  of  Madame  de  Pompadour  tucking  up  her 
sleeves  and  making  butter  in  the  garden  of  Trianon. 

Sue  stayed,  for  she  wanted  to  see  Perce  and  Muriel. 

She  would  probably  miss  Perce,  who  seldom  came 
home  from  the  City  before  half-past  six.  But  in  a  few 
minutes  Muriel  arrived  from  the  academy.  She  looked 
very  pretty  in  her  lengthened  skirts,  rather  high  boots 
of  glace  kid,  and  composition  gloves,  the  very  nearest 
thing  to  leather.  Her  hair  was  almost  up  too,  for  the 
brown  pigtail  had  turned  into  a  drooping  bun.  She  laid 


346     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

upon  the  table  her  school  satchel  and  a  little  bag,  myste- 
riously swollen  all  over  except  in  one  corner  where  was 
the  obvious  powder  puff  lump.  Also  The  Days  of  Bruce 
by  Grace  Aguilar,  from  the  academy  library.  Then  she 
held  out  a  gloved  hand  to  her  sister,  said :  "  How  d'you 
do  ? "  and  kissed  her  upon  the  cheek  with  a  sacramental 
air.  Yes,  she  was  all  right,  she  was  quite  happy;  the 
girls  were  very  nice;  she  got  on  very  well  with  them, 
thank  you,  especially  with  Miss  Bubwith.  It  seemed 
that  Muriel  had  been  able  to  help  Miss  Bubwith  on  a 
knotty  point  in  French  literature,  something  in  The 
Miserdbles,  by  Victor  Hugo.  The  conversation  was  for 
a  while  maintained  scholastic,  and  Sue  was  given 
glimpses  of  the  once  empyrean  circles  of  St.  Panwich, 
of  Caroline  Bubwith  who  had  tickets  for  the  Zoo  on 
Sundays,  of  Gwenwynwyn  Davies:  they  said  that  Da- 
vies,  in  the  High  Street,  made  still  more  in  the  drapery 
than  even  Mr.  Bubwith.  And  the  history  mistress  was 
related  to  an  earl.  It  was  all  rather  daunting  and  so 
stirring  that  Sue  was  tempted  into  vulgarity  and  casu- 
ally let  out  that  Lady  Montacute  had  called  on  her. 
Muriel  ate  her  tea  with  a  fastidious  curling  of  the 
nostrils  because  cold  fish  was  well,  was  well,  anyhow, 
wasn't  late  dinner.  Mrs.  Groby  said  nothing  but  lis- 
tened to  her  daughters,  rivals  and  partners  in  grandeur. 
There  was  a  little  hush  in  Paradise  Row.  It  was  in- 
human even  when  Muriel  confessed  that  the  drill  in- 
structress was  rather  nice,  with  her  long  strong  arms  and 
her  tanned  face.  She  stopped.  Muriel  could  not  let 
herself  go  and  acknowledge  that  she  had  a  violent  rave 
for  the  drill  instructress,  that  it  was  lovely  to  give  her 
violets  and  perhaps  still  lovelier  to  be  told  not  to  be  a 
little  fool,  in  that  nice  young  man  voice  of  hers.  No,  en- 
thusiasm was  not  ladylike,  Muriel  thought ;  a  few  more 
years  of  progress,  and  she  would  think  "  it  wasn't 
done." 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  electric  bell.     Muriel  did  not 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          347 

move  but  went  on  with  the  cold  fish  as  if  she  expected  a 
maid  to  answer.  Mrs.  Groby  made  as  if  to  get  up,  but 
Sue,  without  thinking,  ceded  to  an  old  habit,  ran  to  the 
door  and  opened  it.  She  recoiled,  her  knees  suddenly 
all  bendy,  for  there  in  the  bad  light  stood  Bert  Caldwell, 
his  bowler  upon  the  back  of  his  head  and  his  hands 
nervously  playing  with  a  galvanometer.  They  looked 
at  each  other,  these  two,  for  an  apparently  long  time, 
hours,  time  enough  to  review  all  their  past,  to  analyse 
their  present,  glimpse  their  future.  A  whole  torrent  of 
memory  rose  in  both,  stifling  their  words, —  walks  round 
the  houses  in  Highbury,  others  on  Hampstead  Heath, 
tram  rides,  hot  scones,  a  garnet  brooch  making  the  word 
"  Susannah  ",  kisses  in  a  quiet  mews  —  and  vaguely  a 
vision  of  two  rooms  once  dreamt  of,  of  Sunday,  a  clean 
collar,  a  political  meeting,  while  Carl  Marx  Caldwell, 
Holyoake  Caldwell,  and  their  little  sister,  Marie  Bash- 
kirtsev  Caldwell  .  .  . 

It  lasted  just  one  second,  all  that.  Then  Sue  said: 
"Oo  —  Bert!" 

"  Hallo !  "  he  said,  with  false  airiness. 

"  Fancy  meeting  you,"  said  Sue. 

The  electrician  took  no  notice  of  her. 

"  'Evening,  Mother,"  he  said.  "  Dining  with  the 
countess,  Muriel  ?  " 

Then  there  was  an  awkward  little  silence,  during 
which  Sue  wondered  why  Bert  was  there.  She  did  not 
know  that  he  had  taken  to  Mrs.  Groby  and  that  he  liked 
to  come  in  for  a  few  minutes  after  work.  She  under- 
stood that  a  little  later,  but  what  she  never  understood 
until  much  time  had  passed  was  that  Bert  went  to  see 
Mrs.  Groby  to  talk  to  her  about  socialism,  and  be  told 
that  he  would  know  better  when  he  grew  up,  just  because 
he  liked  to  sit  in  the  kitchen  and  remember  how  he  used 
to  go  there  sometimes  and  sit  with  Sue  by  the  window, 
sometimes  kiss  her  just  there,  on  the  right  side  of  the 
range,  when  Mrs.  Groby  went  into  the  next  room.  (One 


348     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

could  not  see  the  right  side  from  the  doorway.)  He 
hated  himself  for  it,  but  he  had  to  go ;  it  was  his  one 
streak  of  sentimentality  and  it  went  right  through  him ; 
it  was  his  secret  vice. 

Mrs.  Groby  felt  embarrassed ;  this  was  a  dreadful  sit- 
uation. It  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  which  happened 
at  the  Holloway  when  they  had  a  really  good  melodrama 
on.  But  she  did  not  know  the  rest  of  her  part.  Bert 
made  violent  efforts  to  carry  things  off,  but  he  did  not 
quite  know  what  he  was  saying. 

"  Been  workin'  late  ? "  Mrs.  Groby  asked  in  despair, 
knowing  this  to  be  idiotic. 

"  No,"  said  Bert.  "  Things  are  a  bit  slack  just  now, 
now  we've  done  rewiring  the  town  hall.  There's  a  silly 
job  for  you !  What  they  want  to  change  the  voltage  for 
I  don't  know,  and  pull  the  whole  place  about ;  wasting 
the  ratepayers'  money,  that's  what  it  is." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Mrs.  Groby,  "  they  don't  care  wot  they 
does."  She  grew  skilful.  "  Is  it  true  they  'ave  cham- 
pagne lunches  ?  " 

Bert  came  near  to  gritting  his  teeth. 

"  Looks  like  it  from  the  accounts,  especially  at  the 
board  of  guardians.  Being  a  charity  place,  they  begin 
at  home." 

"  Miss  Denny's  father's  a  guardian,"  said  Muriel  re- 
proachfully. 

Bert  laughed.  "  Well,  you  can  ask  her  if  it's  true 
now  that  you're  in  society,  Muriel." 

"  I  wouldn't  dream  of  doing  such  a  thing,"  said  Mur- 
iel. "  We  don't  talk  about  things  like  that,  Bert." 

Sue  felt  like  a  ghost  watching  mortals.  She  ought  to 
say  something,  she  must  say  something,  she  wouldn't  be 
so  obvious  then.  She  faltered : 

"  Girls  have  got  plenty  of  things  of  their  own  to  talk 
about,  Bert." 

The  young  man's  face  did  not  move.  He  said  to  Mrs. 
Groby : 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          349 

"  How's  that  bell  I  put  up  for  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  works  beautiful,"  said  Mrs.  Groby.  "  Tho', 
you  know,  Bert,  I  forgits  to  ring,  being  used  to  the 
knocker." 

'  You'll  have  to  learn,  Mother,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Of  course  she'll  have  to  learn,"  said  Bert.  "  How 
d'you  expect  to  get  any  progress  if  you  don't  apply  mod- 
ern science  in  the  home  ?  " 

There  was  a  little  gap  during  which  Mrs.  Groby  felt 
humble.  She  had  let  Bert  put  in  that  electric  bell ;  it 
had  seemed  to  suit  her  greatness,  and  it  had  pleased  him 
so  to  do  it.  It  had  taken  such  a  long  time  to  set  up  the 
batteries  in  Muriel's  room  —  which  had  once  been 
Sue's. 

Again  Sue  offered  the  most  intelligent  remark  she 
could  think  up  about  electricity  while  Bert,  without  an- 
swering, filled  the  tolerated  pipe  of  the  old  friend  and 
lit  it.  So,  after  a  while,  when  other  topics  had  been  dis- 
cussed, the  temperament  of  one  of  Bert's  pals,  a  rather 
nice  murder  just  then  in  the  papers,  human  topics  that 
interested  her,  in  which  she  would  have  liked  to  share, 
she  stood  up  suddenly  and  said  that  she  must  go.  She 
felt  outcast,  she  felt  alone.  And  not  alone  as  one  upon 
a  peak  who  sees  below  little  humanity,  but  like  Ishmael, 
abandoned  in  the  desert.  She  kissed  her  mother  and 
Muriel,  then  bravely,  for  the  second  time  meeting  Bert's 
eyes,  she  shook  hands  with  him.  It  was  dreadful,  for 
their  hands  were  bare,  and  to  feel  again  the  hardness 
of  the  workman's  fingertips  after  the  soft  pointed  fingers 
of  men  of  another  breed  made  her  worse  than  melan- 
cholic ;  in  an  incomprehensible  way  it  filled  her  with  ex- 
citement and  an  old  desire  renewed  and  made  vivid. 
He  was  so  real  somehow. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said  unsteadily. 

And  he  too  was  stirred,  for  it  was  so  long  since  he  had 
held  that  firm  little  brown  hand  which  looked  different 
now  with  its  pretty  nails  and  its  gold  bracelet.  So  just 


350     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

because  he  was  stirred  and  unhappy  to  the  verge  of  tears 
he  was  airy ;  he  was  even  slangy.  He  replied : 

"  Cheer  oh !     Good  evening !  " 

After  Sue  had  gone  Muriel  went  into  her  bedroom  to 
put  her  hair  straight,  for  she  had  to  go  to  the  Morris 
Dancing  Class  which  Mrs.  Davies  had  organised  at  "  The 
Cedars."  Mrs.  Groby  remained  with  the  young  man 
who  sat  staring  at  the  range,  pulling  very  fast  at  his 
pipe.  She  wanted  to  say  something,  but  it  would  not 
come.  She  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  hesitating, 
feeling  she  would  like  to  kiss  him  and  tell  him  not  to 
take  on  so.  But  she  felt  shy.  So  she  just  patted  his 
shoulder  once  or  twice  and  murmured  with  a  healing  air : 
"  Every  cloud  'as  a  silver  linin'." 


VII 

All  through  dinner  Sue  was  rather  silent.  She  sat 
there,  playing  with  the  edge  of  the  epergne,  at  times 
pulling  a  petal  from  the  thick  bunch  of  violas  which  Mrs. 
Huncote  had  sent  from  Cannes.  Roger  was  amiable 
that  night ;  he  tried  to  talk  to  her  of  the  car  they  would 
buy  a  little  later,  of  the  violas,  and  didn't  she  think  that 
the  elusive  violet  had  a  more  English  grace  ?  He  tried 
her  upon  subjects  more  her  own,  the  stateliness  of  Rhoda 
and  the  latest  breakage  of  the  increasingly  athletic  cat. 
But  she  did  not  respond.  She  sat  there  preoccupied, 
asking  herself  why  there  should  persist  in  her  a  feeling 
of  discomfort  and  regret.  She  was  not  hankering  after 
Bert,  of  course  not.  But  still,  she  felt  she  ought  not  to 
feel  like  this  and  was  remorseful.  It  was  not  her  fault ; 
but  still  it  didn't  ought  to  have  happened.  Later  in  the 
evening  she  told  Roger. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  what  about  it  ?  " 

She  wriggled.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know  —  only  it  feels  so 
queer  after  —  after  having  known  him  so  long." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Roger,  "  but  that's  all  over." 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          351 

"  Yes,  it's  all  over,"  said  Sue,  "  only,  you  see,  we  be- 
ing married,  I  can't  help  feeling  that  I  oughtn't  to." 

"  Oughtn't  to  what  ?  There's  no  harm  in  your  meet- 
ing him  again." 

This  hurt  her;  it  was  not  in  accord  with  the  proper 
jealousy  of  a  married  man. 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  mind,"  she  said,  "  I  don't.  Only 
—  you  can  call  me  a  silly  if  you  like,  but  when  one's 
married  one's  married."  She  struggled  with  an  emo- 
tion. "  That's  the  difference  between  being  married 
and  not.  It's  —  it's  not  having  anything  left  for  any- 
body else,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

''  Yes,  I  understand,"  said  Roger,  rather  moved. 

"  And  so,  going  back  like  that  to  —  well,  there  never 
was  anything  in  it  —  but  still,  you  know,  he  —  he  was 
gone  on  me.  So  it  seemed  to  me  I  oughtn't  to  —  even 
shake  hands  because  ..."  Then  her  eyes  grew  soft. 
"  Well,  there's  only  you  now." 

He  got  up  and  went  around  the  table,  put  his  arms 
round  her  shoulders  and  drew  her  close.  He  under- 
stood the  straight,  clean  feeling  which  struggled  to  come 
forth  from  her  like  a  clear  spring  through  clay.  As  he 
kissed  her  she  too  flung  her  arms  round  him.  But  there 
was  a  difference  in  her  caress ;  he  was  stirred  with  the 
most  delicate  emotion  because  he  had  conquered  an 
entire  faithfulness,  because  he  was  grateful,  because  for 
such  delight  he  could  in  that  minute  overcome  so  many 
things  that  stung,  forget  so  many  fears.  But  she  held 
him  gripped  more  nervously,  pressing  her  face  against 
his  until  it  hurt,  as  if  she  were  less  offering  love  than  beg- 
ging him  to  hold  her  closer,  to  protect  her  against  the  en- 
folding past,  to  weld  for  her  a  chain  so  close  that  never 
could  she  run  out  when  beyond  the  past  went  piping. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  they  were  ordinary  again, 
she  told  him  that  she  had  asked  Mrs.  Groby  to  tea  on 
Sunday. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind,"  she  said. 


352     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Mind  ?  "  he  replied.     "  Why  should  I  mind  ?  " 

She  sat  with  downcast  head. 

"  I  ought  to  have  asked  you  first." 

"  You  haven't  got  to  ask  me,"  he  said  gently.  "  Do 
try  and  understand  that  you're  quite  free;  you  can  do 
just  what  you  like.  Haven't  you  got  that  yet  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sue,  hut  she  meant  "  No." 

Later,  before  he  went  to  bed,  he  thought  again  of  the 
little  incident.  It  had  been  hard  on  her  to  meet  Bert 
like  that,  so  suddenly,  though  it  did  not  matter  so  much 
as  she  thought:  Roger  Huncote  was  enough  of  a  male 
egoist  not  to  realise  that  Bert  could  matter  now  that  he, 
Roger  Huncote,  had  come.  She  had  taken  it  too  hard. 
Still,  he  must  help  her,  even  if  she  was  too  delicate,  too 
sensitive.  He  must  build  her  a  present  to  blot  out  the 
past.  He  remembered  that  Mrs.  Groby  would  come  on 
Sunday.  He  did  not  think  he  could  tackle  Mrs.  Groby 
alone  with  Sue.  Whom  could  he  ask?  He  could  not 
ask  anybody  ordinary.  And  yet  he  must  ask  somebody. 
Well,  he  would  ask  Theresa ;  she  wouldn't  mind.  After 
all,  who  cared  ?  Before  going  to  bed  he  went  down  to 
lock  up.  He  had  to  turn  out  the  lights  in  the  drawing- 
room,  for  Sue  had  left  them  all  on  as  she  went  to  bed. 
She  often  did  that,  and  it  irritated  him.  He  did  not 
know  why  it  irritated  him ;  he  only  came  near  the  edge 
of  understanding  that  this  waste  of  electric  light  meant 
exactly  the  same  thing  as  the  purchase  of  bad  jam  and 
cheap  tumblers,  that  Sue  was  instinctively  economical 
when  she  bought  things  that  the  poor  bought,  but  that 
she  was  wasteful  in  things  such  as  light,  because  those 
were  things  of  the  rich  and  had  never  meant  anything 
to  her.  It  was  not  clear,  but  somehow  it  was  tragic. 

VIII 

Theresa  kept  Roger's  letter  until  the  last.  She  was 
an  epicure  in  those  things;  she  always  looked  first  at 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          353 

the  circulars,  the  bills,  and  the  letters  in  familiar  hand- 
writings, keeping  for  the  last  the  adventure  of  the  un- 
known hand.  She  hardly  realised  why  Roger's  letter 
should  dominate  even  adventure.  But  after  she  had 
read  it  twice  she  lay  back  and  for  a  while  stayed  think- 
ing. It  was  so  pitiful,  so  easy  to  understand.  Roger 
was  almost  telling  her, —  or  how  otherwise  could  she 
understand  that  phrase :  "  I've  got  to  ask  somebody 
and  somehow  it's  so  difficult."  He  was  almost  telling 
her  that  he  dared  ask  nobody  but  her.  These  people 
made  loneliness  round  him.  It  was  awful.  And  he 
knew,  and  the  letter  sounded  almost  as  if  he  did  not 
care,  as  if  he  had  said  to  himself :  "  Good  heavens ! 
Let's  settle  down,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  be 
happy,  and  not  think  of  it.  It  doesn't  matter  to 
Sirius."  Tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of  him 
like  this,  alone  and  beginning  not  to  care,  like  Robinson 
Crusoe  before  Man  Friday  came.  But  Theresa  was  a 
woman  as  well  as  a  friend,  and  she  could  not  help 
thinking  how  happy  Crusoe  would  be  if  only  he  knew 
there  was  a  Man  Friday  in  the  world.  He  did  not. 
There  he  was  on  his  islands  among  the  goats  with  no- 
body to  talk  to  him. 

"  I  could  talk  to  him,"  she  thought,  and  her  eyes 
grew  dim  with  the  sweetness  of  that  impossible  conver- 
sation. She  put  the  letter  down,  her  unhappiness 
growing  swiftly  as  the  plant  from  the  seed  in  the  fakir's 
little  plot.  The  blooms  of  pity  were  two,  one  for  him, 
one  for  herself.  His  she  saw  as  a  big  bloom  of  a  mauve 
so  pale  that  it  was  almost  grey.  Could  this  go  on? 
Could  he  so  remain  divorced  from  his  own  people? 
Could  he  indefinitely  dwell  in  St.  Panwich  tents  because 
those  of  Kedar  were  closed  to  him  ?  She  thought  of  the 
dreadful  things  that  might  happen  to  him,  a  growing 
isolation,  a  shrinking  from  his  own  people,  worse  still, 
an  enthusiastic  adoption  of  another  breed  and  its  man- 
ners :  unpressed  trousers,  pipes  in  the  street,  drink  per- 


354     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

haps;  she  shivered.  She  thought  of  a  theosophical 
friend  of  hers  who  said :  "  It's  a  long  way  up  the  ray." 
Yes,  and  such  a  short  way  down.  Then  she  thought  of 
the  ascending  ray  like  a  butter  slide  and  laughed,  for 
even  when  she  was  very  unhappy  Theresa  could  laugh  at 
burlesque.  But  it  did  not  last  long :  before  her  eyes  was 
the  other  bloom  of  pity,  mauve  also ;  but  she  could  not 
help  being  an  egoist.  Hers  was  not  mauve  turning  to 
grey,  like  Roger's;  hers  was  mauve  turning  to  black. 
She  knew  just  then  how  much  he  meant  to  her,  how  dear 
were  to  her  his  idealism,  his  unreasonable  hopefulness, 
his  youth.  And  for  the  terrible  moment  that  comes  to 
women  now  and  then  she  wondered  whether  she  loved 
his  youth  because  hers  was  fleeting.  But  no,  it  was  not 
youth  she  loved  in  him ;  it  was  just  him  she  loved,  and 
for  the  first  time  she  told  herself  so  quite  simply.  It 
was  hopeless,  it  was  a  thing  without  a  future,  and  yet  it 
thrilled  her;  she  held  it  to  her  just  then  as  a  mother 
holds  a  dying  child ;  it  must  die,  but  still  she  can  feel 
upon  her  breast  its  little  weak  hands.  Something  secret 
whispered  to  her :  "  Who  knows  ?  Perhaps  it  will  not 
die?" 

But  the  whisper  was  very  feeble,  drowned  by  the 
cry  of  pain  which  came  out  of  that  letter;  she  could 
hardly  hear  the  whisper  now.  She  could  hear  only  that 
cry,  blending  with  the  sobs  of  youth  within  her :  "  Oh, 
I'm  dying  while  you  wait.  Help  me  as  you  want  to 
help  him,  or  it's  going  to  be  too  late." 

Elizabeth  came  in.  She  found  her  mistress  lying 
upon  her  face,  hugging  the  pillow,  her  shoulders  going 
up  and  down  rhythmically,  without  a  sound.  Elizabeth 
was  old  and  short-sighted,  so  she  said :  "  Your  bath's 
getting  cold,"  and  did  not  at  once  understand  why  The- 
resa did  not  reply.  Only  a  little  later  did  she  notice  the 
rhythmic  rise  and  fall  of  the  slim  shoulders  and  the 
struggle  of  the  hands  upon  the  pillow,  determined  that 
nobody  should  see  the  tears, 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          355 

IX 

They  were  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  for  Mrs. 
Groby.  She  came.  But  not  alone,  for  she  had 
brought  her  husband,  Perce,  Muriel,  and  a  friend,  a 
hoarse  and  perspiring  female  with  a  large  bust  and  a 
small  baby.  The  more  the  merrier. 

Mrs.  Groby  felt  quite  comfortable,  for  by  now  she 
was  quite  used  to  Pembroke  Square.  As  for  Muriel, 
she  understood  that  one  had  to  be  much  richer  to  live 
at  "  The  Cedars  ",  in  Highbury,  than  here,  and  so  she 
was  prepared  to  make  allowances.  As  for  Perce,  the 
responsibility  of  the  stamp-book  had  greatly  increased 
his  coolness,  together  with  the  familiarity  bred  in  the 
City  of  acquaintance  with  large  cheques;  he  told  them 
about  that  very  soon.  Perce  had  everything,  his  own 
way,  as  Sue  was  paralysed  by  the  situation.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  Theresa,  Roger  would  have  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  seize  his  father-in-law  and  Perce,  take  them 
down-stairs  and  make  them  drink  while  Sue  managed 
the  two  women.  But  Theresa  seemed  strangely  un- 
dismayed. She  asked  the  baby's  name,  she  poked  it 
in  the  side  and  made  it  gurgle,  while  its  mother  per- 
spired with  delight.  Simultaneously  she  engaged  Mrs. 
Groby,  leaving  Sue  free  to  ask  Perce  the  questions  he 
wanted  to  be  asked. 

Huncote  felt  better;  he  had  to  entertain  only  Mr. 
Groby,  and  this  was  quite  easy:  if  the  public  houses 
had  on  Sundays  closed  at  four  instead  of  three,  it  might 
have  perhaps  been  less  easy  but,  as  it  happened,  Mr. 
Groby  was  just  about  friendly,  though  there  was  some- 
thing rather  penetrating  about  his  breath.  Naturally 
they  drifted  into  politics ;  Mr.  Groby  was  a  strong  Con- 
servative, but  most  of  his  political  opinions  had  been 
melted  down  into  a  protest:  ninepence  for  fourpence. 
Roger  was  not  greatly  in  love  with  the  Insurance  Act, 
but  he  found  himself  defending  it  with  a  vigour  that 


356     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

would  have  made  Mr.  Masterman  envious.  Strong  in 
his  slum  experience  he  pulverised  Mr.  Groby' s  points  as 
to  the  cheapness  of  doctors,  though  he  had  failed  so  to 
deal  with  Sue.  But  then  Mr.  Groby  was  a  man  and 
tried  to  argue  logically,  which  served  him  ill.  Also 
he  had  to  struggle  with  a  tendency  to  call  Roger,  Sir, 
and  that  got  in  his  way.  They  managed  very  amiably, 
those  two.  He  could  hear  Perce  talking  to  Sue : 

"  They  ain't  'arf  rich.  My  word,  you  should  see 
the  cheques.  There  was  one  for  a  hundred  and  two 
pounds  the  other  day." 

"  My !  "  said  Sue  admiringly. 

"An'  wot's  more,  I  'ad  to  take  it  to  the  bank." 
Perce  swelled.  "  They  got  to  trust  a  man,  you  know. 
One's  got  to  check  off  with  the  cashier  too,  and  wouldn't 
one  catch  it  if  one  made  a  mistake!  But  that's  all 
right,"  he  added  consolingly.  "  I  felt  a  bit  shaky  about 
it  in  the  beginning,"  he  conceded,  "  but  one  soon  gets 
used  to  business.  Not  like  some  fellers.  There's  the 
junior  clerk,  as  they  call  'im,  'e  can't  add  up  for  little 
apples  .  .  ." 

Huncote  and  his  father-in-law  had  slowly  diverged 
from  insurance  into  unemployment,  thence  into  metal 
and  railway  work,  and  were  now  discussing  the  record 
runs  of  railways.  Mr.  Groby  was  very  learned  as  to 
the  performances  of  the  Great  Northern  and  the  Great 
Western  which  he  insisted  on  making  picturesque  by 
continual  references  to  the  Exeter  Mail  and  the  Flying 
Scotchman. 

"  Fifty-seven  mile  in  the  hour !  Tell  yer  wot,  it 
opens  yer  eyes  t'  think  o'  that,  an'  a  'undred  an'  two 
miles  without  a  stop.  They  can't  do  that  in  Germany, 
can  they  ? " 

He  was  corrected  as  to  a  non-stop  run  by  Roger, 
whom  this  topic  left  languid.  But  Mr.  Groby  was  not 
languid;  he  was  evidently  prepared  to  pass  hours  dis- 
cussing railway  runs,  weights  of  engines,  heights  of 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          357 

bridges.  Indeed  the  whole  of  that  afternoon  was  punc- 
tuated, whenever  Roger  talked  to  anybody  else,  by 
rumbling  references  to  the  length  of  tunnels  and  the 
depth  of  cuttings.  An  interval  a  little  later  was  filled 
in  with  fire  brigades. 

He  kept  away  from  the  women,  but  they  tended  to 
cluster  and  to  talk  loudly.  The  conversation  was  not 
obstetric,  in  deference,  presumably,  to  Theresa's  vir- 
ginal state,  but  the  hoarse  mother  had  details  to  con- 
fide, mainly  medical.  Roger  could  hear  her  from  time 
to  time: 

".  .  .  so  I  stopped  the  gravy  beef  as  Mrs.  Bubwith 
give  me  as  the  doctor  said  it  didn't  oughter  'ave  meat. 
I  just  give  'im  a  drop  o'  milk  with  a  pinch  of  citrate 
of  soda." 

"  And  did  that  stop  it  ?  "  asked  Theresa. 

"  No,"  said  the  hoarse  woman.  "  I  didn't  find  out 
that  Ethel,  that's  my  eldest,  give  'im  a  bit  o'  kipper  at 
tea."  Resentful.  "  I  didn't  'arf  walk  into  'er." 

Mrs.  Groby  contributed  reminiscences  of  the  feeding 
of  children;  Sue  was  excluded  as  unpractical.  The 
last  Roger  heard  of  this  particular  conversation  was  a 
difference  of  opinion  as  to  binders,  whatever  those  were. 
Now  Mr.  Groby  entangled  him  into  a  story  less  lucid 
than  the  statistics  of  railways.  It  was  a  story,  well, 
something  like  this: 

"  Wot  I  was  tellin'  yer  was  'ow  'e  lost  'is  job ;  'e  was 
my  mate,  'e  was.  It  was  all  along  the  foreman,  yer  see. 
Red  'aired,  'e  was,  an'  me  ole  mother  used  t'  say, 
'  Charlie,'  she  used  t'  say,  '  never  you  trust  a  red  'aired 
man  .  .  .'" 

".  .  .  gettin'  thinner  and  thinner,"  said  the  hoarse 
woman  gloomily,  as  she  turned  the  baby  over  on  her 
lap  and  pulled  up  its  drawers  as  high  as  they  would  go. 
"  Doctor  says  'e's  always  s'prised  to  find  'im  alive." 

Mrs.  Groby  grew  comforting. 

"  Wile  there's  life,  there's  'ope." 


358     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  So  the  foreman  says  to  'im :  '  You  marked  the 
sheet  at  ten  forty/  'e  says.  l  That's  a  lie/  my  mate 
says.  1 1  ort  t'  mark  it  ten  twenty  by  right/  'e  says ; 
1 1  let  the  firm  off  twenty  minutes  cos  it's  my  birthday.' 
The  foreman,  'e  didn't  say  nothin',  and  then  my  mate, 
'e  trusted  'im,  'e  did.  An'  as  I  was  tellin'  you,  my  old 
mother,  she  used  ter  say,  '  Charlie/  she  used  to  say, 
1  never  you  trust '  .  .  ." 

The  story  grew  and  became  more  and  more  confused. 
Theresa  and  Mrs.  Groby  had  now  come  to  a  sharp  dif- 
ference of  opinion  because  Theresa  thought  the  baby 
too  young  to  have  gravy  beef  at  all,  doctor  or  no  doctor. 
The  difference  grew  acute,  Mrs.  Groby  feeling  that  as 
Sue  had  been  given  bacon  at  the  age  of  eight  months 
and  there  she  was,  "  look  at  the  girl,  it  ain't  done  'er 
no  'arm,"  there  could  be  nothing  against  gravy  beef. 
The  hoarse  woman  was  delighted  with  the  wrangle  and 
fanned  its  flame.  She  remarked :  "  Go  on,  I'll  'old 
yer  'ats." 

And  so  the  afternoon  wore  on,  peaceable  and  quarrel- 
some, somewhat  discursive.  Tea  came  and  was  drunk. 
Then  the  Grobys  declared  that  they  must  go  and  did 
not  go.  They  did  not  know  how  to  do  it  and  for  half 
an  hour  explained  how  sorry  they  were  that  they  could 
not  stay.  Muriel  had  taken  very  little  interest  in  the 
conversation;  she  had  looked  at  the  pictures,  examined 
the  books  with  a  critical  air.  Theresa  worked  splen- 
didly. As  they  did  not  go  she  tried  to  amuse  them 
while  they  stayed.  The  new  photographs  of  Roger 
were  handed  round  and  freely  criticised.  There  was 
coldness  between  Sue  and  Perce  from  that  time  on,  for 
he  was  heard  to  remark,  not  quite  sotto  voce,  that 
they  must  have  been  selling  off  when  Roger  got  his 
face.  Mrs.  Groby  grew  conscious  of  a  certain  tension 
in  the  air  and  waxed  enthusiastic  over  the  photo- 
graph. 

"  You  mustn't  mind  wot  we  says,  Eoger.     A  photo's 


THE  LAND  OF  DOUBT          359 

made  to  be  shown  and,  as  the  sayin'  goes,  you  should  let 
others  judge  you." 

It    was    nearly    seven    o'clock.     Mrs.    Groby    said: 
"  'Ow  time  flies !  " 


They  could  not  blend,  those  two.  Body  and  spirit 
were  of  different  essences;  he  was  as  foreign  to  her  as 
she  was  to  him.  They  were  in  the  lists  of  love,  like 
champions  of  two  classes.  He  began  to  realise  it.  Sue 
was  of  a  class  that  is  interested  in  the  price  of  things 
and  in  material  things,  in  what  it  can  see  rather  than 
in  what  it  can  dream,  in  the  scenery  and  the  actor  rather 
than  in  the  play,  in  the  building  rather  than  in  its  grace, 
in  big  things  like  cathedrals,  town  halls,  because  they 
are  big  and  particularly  if  they  are  new  unless,  of 
course,  they  are  extremely  old,  which  is  as  good.  He 
began  to  understand  their  elementary  ideas  of  beauty, 
their  crude  idealism;  as  he  suspected  this  he  began  to 
despise  them.  And  yet,  and  yet,  a  feeling  still  clung 
to  him  that  though  crude  this  idealism  was  much  more 
vigorous  than  his  own  made  by  culture  fastidious  and  a 
little  pale. 

Only  there  it  was,  there  they  were,  ready  to  allow 
for  each  other,  unable  to  do  so.  One  morning,  as  a 
surprise,  Sue  appeared  in  a  frock  of  her  own  ordering. 
Nine  o'clock  and  she  stood  in  a  mixture  of  silk  and 
velvet,  with  a  bow  where  there  was  not  a  bit  of  lace, 
and  a  ruffle  where  there  was  no  tuck.  A  frock  of  defi- 
ance, unsupervised  by  Theresa,  by  the  dangerous  The- 
resa who  liked  Koger  too  well,  by  the  supercilious 
Theresa  who  knew  too  much.  This  was  Sue's  own 
frock,  her  own  idea,  her  own  desire  to  rebel  against  the 
other  woman  and  by  herself  to  delight  her  own  man. 
It  was  mainly  green  because  that  was  Sue's  idea  of 
what  a  dark  beauty  ought  to  wear.  That  night  as 


360    THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Koger  lay  awake  he  thought  of  Sue.  He  had  not  dis- 
cussed dress  with  her;  he  seldom  discussed  anything 
with  her  now,  not  having  anything  to  say,  and  he  had 
begun  to  understand  that  she  too  felt  she  had  nothing 
to  say  to  him.  They  married,  thinking  that  between 
them  were  tastes  and  thoughts  when  there  were  only 
caresses. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  he  said.  Then  he  thought: 
"We  can't  go  on  like  this.  It's  my  fault,  I  thought 
she'd  tumble  to  things.  I  have  not  educated  her  enough. 
I  must  go  on." 


CHAPTEE  THE  FOURTH 

SCENT    OP  DEAD    JONQUILS 


ROGEB  HUNCOTE  walked  up  and  down  in  the  Settle- 
ment attic.  He  liked  to  go  there  now  and  then  to  think, 
for  he  was  one  of  those  whom  the  streets  disturb  and 
yet  who  cannot  think  well  in  a  park  or  in  the  country. 
People,  birds,  the  blowing  wind,  everything  disturbed 
him.  He  needed  walls  to  cabin  his  thought.  He  liked 
the  false  atmosphere  of  the  attic,  the  contrast  its  heap 
of  stage  props  made  with  the  free  view  of  London 
through  the  dirty  window.  And  there  was  room  to 
walk  up  and  down.  He  had  been  there  a  long  time, 
thinking  of  a  little  incident  that  afternoon.  He  had 
been  out  with  Sue  after  lunch;  they  had  had  tea  in 
the  Gardens,  and  when  they  arrived  at  Pembroke 
Square  he  found  that  he  had  forgotten  his  latch-key. 

"  Got  your  key  ?  "  he  said  to  Sue. 

But  as  he  spoke  Sue  raised  the  knocker  and  gave  it  a 
sharp  rat-rat.  He  was  vaguely  discomforted,  but  he 
was  thinking  of  something  else,  and  only  a  moment 
later,  as  the  knock  was  not  answered,  did  he  say: 
"  King  the  bell." 

Ehoda  came  to  the  door;  she  seemed  a  little 
startled  and  apologetic :  "  Beg  pardon,  Ma'am  —  I 
thought  .  .  ." 

Ehoda  became  an  eloquent  mass  of  suppressions. 
And  quite  suddenly  Koger's  mind  was  illumined  by 
her  implication.  Of  course  Rhoda  had  thought  it  was 
the  postman,  or  a  parcel,  or  something.  A  hot  little 


362     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

rage  seized  him,  and  he  found  himself  too  lucid.  After 
all  these  months  Sue  was  not  yet  using  her  key  or  the 
bell.  He  knew  her,  for  he  knew  her  people  too  well; 
he  knew  those  tenements  in  St.  Panwich  where  there 
are  no  keys  and  no  bells  because  the  house  cannot  be 
left,  because  a  child  or  the  mother  is  always  at  home, 
because  staying  at  home  is  accounted  a  sort  of  virtue. 
It  sickened  him. 

Now  in  the  attic  it  struck  him  that  what  was  worse 
than  that  it  should  sicken  him  was  that  nine  months 
ago  it  would  have  made  him  smile.  Falling  leaves! 
He  was  reminded  of  a  tree  in  the  autumn  that  sheds 
upon  the  wind  dry  golden  corpses  that  once  were  green. 
It  shocked  him. 

"  This  won't  do,"  he  thought.     "  I  really  must  try." 

He  looked  about  him  interestedly,  at  the  cases  which 
he  knew  contained  spare  pamphlets  and  books,  at  half 
a  Eoman  portico  and  a  clump  of  cloth  palm  trees  held 
up  by  broomsticks.  "  I  must  try,"  he  thought,  and  in- 
stinctively went  to  the  window  to  look  out  over  the  city. 
There  she  lay,  London,  this  early  July  day,  gilt  and 
warm,  with  her  thousand  roofs,  so  close,  so  strong  that 
they  seemed  eternal,  with  her  many  spires  raising  up 
towards  the  pale  heaven  her  ever-renascent  hope.  He 
loved  her  as  she  clustered  between  her  hills.  He  loved 
her  silver  girdle,  the  Thames,  which  he  could  just  see 
beyond  the  slope  of  the  Strand.  He  could  feel  the  spirit 
of  the  city  that  every  day  lifts  those  whom  it  elects 
from  Whitechapel  to  Park  Lane,  that  spirit,  truest  of 
democrats,  that  rates  not  a  man  by  his  achievement  but 
yet  his  son  by  his  father's  achievement.  He  laughed: 
the  spirit  of  London  town,  was  it  not  after  all,  when 
you  thought  of  the  sleepy,  obstinate  spirit  of  the  coun- 
try, was  it  not  the  spirit  of  social  promotion  ? 

He  sat  down  upon  a  case. 

"  Well,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  And,  of  course,  at  once 
he  thought  of  pictures.  Of  literature  a  little  later, 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS    363 

and  even  then  music  had  come  before.  For  Roger 
Huncote,  with  all  his  intelligence  and  his  delicacy,  was 
of  his  period,  of  a  time  when  men  thought  that  artistic 
culture  was  the  root  of  refinement.  He  had  been  to 
Oxford,  which  was  just  a  little  more  than  having  been 
to  the  Polytechnic.  His  parents  gave  him  a  first-class 
education  and  he  never  got  over  it.  He  thought  of  Sue 
understanding  the  arts  as  he  did,  of  Sue  so  developed 
as  to  tell  at  sight  a  Rembrandt  from  a  Maude  Goodman. 
She  would  be  more  like  him  then,  he  told  himself  in 
innocent  priggishness,  and  he  could  love  her  again.  He 
wanted  her  to  be  like  him :  that  was  a  trace  of  the  divine 
egotism  in  virtue  of  which  God  made  man  in  His  own 
image. 

He  thought  of  the  dress  too,  that  morning's  dress, 
green  silk  and  green  velvet.  He  must  not  suffer  again 
like  that.  He  felt  quite  sorry  for  himself  for  having  to 
stand  that.  But  what  should  he  do?  Could  he  help 
her  to  dress?  Theresa?  Well,  of  course,  there  was 
Theresa,  but  something  new  in  him  shrank;  he  did 
not  want  to  drag  Theresa  into  it  any  more.  He  did 
not  tell  himself  that,  for  he  was  like  most  men,  unable 
to  take  a  decision  without  deceiving  himself  first,  with- 
out assuming  a  righteous  motive.  "  No,"  he  thought 
proudly,  "  I  must  do  it  myself."  At  once  he  thought  of 
blue  coats  and  skirts.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  think  of 
that,  and  he  had  a  vision  of  Sue  always  trim  in  blue 
coats  and  skirts  with  —  with  —  well,  what  did  they 
call  that  white  thing  women  wore  under  the  coat,  a 
thing  with  a  low  neck  ?  And  patent  leather  boots,  of 
course.  It  sounded  a  little  hot  for  summer,  and  he 
vaguely  remembered  having  seen  Theresa  in  something 
made  of  linen,  something  claret-coloured,  but  it  looked 
rather  crumpled,  and  he  vaguely  hated  her  that  day. 
"  Still,"  he  thought  grudgingly,  "  she  must  have  linen 
for  the  summer."  And  now  he  had  a  vision  of  Sue, 
looking  very  fresh,  all  in  white  drill,  with  white  shoes, 


364:     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

and  no  bangles.  It  did  not  strike  him  to  wonder 
whether  that  stuff  would  crumple.  He  was  a  man. 
He  saw  his  wife  as  a  fashion  plate. 

Also  she  must  speak  differently.  True,  she  had  im- 
proved a  good  deal,  but  —  a  governess,  just  for  an  hour 
in  the  mornings.  Sue  was  no  longer  referring  to  "  them 
things ",  but  every  now  and  then,  when  the  cockney 
crept  out  and  she  said  "  haouse "  or  "  naow ",  he 
suffered.  He  would  take  her  to  the  National  Gallery. 
Well,  perhaps  not  at  once.  They  might  go  to  the  Tate 
first.  She  would  like  the  Tate,  and  it  would  lead  her 
upwards.  He  thought  it  could  hardly  lead  her  any 
way  but  upwards  if  he  remembered  the  Tate.  And  a 
concert  or  two,  not  too  classical.  She  must  read  a  bit 
too.  Now  he  thought  of  it,  she  never  seemed  to  read 
anything;  she  only  looked  at  the  pictures  in  the  paper. 
They  ought  to  read  together,  it  would  do  him  good  as 
well  as  her.  Verse,  for  instance;  they  might  begin 
with  Tennyson  and  then  by  degrees  get  on  to  poetry. 
He  felt  quite  inflamed  and  nearly  fell  in  love  again 
with  the  ascending  Sue  .  .  . 

It  proved  quite  easy,  that  governess  business.  Sue 
merely  said :  "  I  know  I  don't  talk  properly."  He 
tried  to  cloak  it  by  telling  her  that  the  governess  would 
read  with  her.  But  Sue  was. still  humble,  she  wanted 
to  learn.  And  it  was  rather  fun  getting  the  governess 
from  a  place  in  Margaret  Street  where  apparently  they 
would  supply  him  with  a  governess,  or  a  chief  eunuch, 
or  any  other  domestic.  It  made  him  feel  very  grown 
up,  as  if  he  had  been  long  married  and  were  providing 
for  his  nursery.  After  all  he  had  a  child  in  the  nursery, 
he  thought,  and  for  a  moment  felt  fond,  then  doubtful, 
and  his  fondness  vanished.  Miss  Ponkey,  when  she 
came,  which  she  now  did  every  morning  for  an  hour 
after  Ethel  had  told  Sue  what  to  order,  clearly  con- 
sidered that  she  was  accessory  to  hushing  up  a  court 
scandal,  a  mesalliance  in  high  life.  She  got  on  very 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS    365 

well  with  Sue,  for  her  attitude  to  high  life,  as  repre- 
sented by  The  Morning  Post,  one  day  late,  which  her 
mother,  the  vicaress,  sent  her  every  day  from  Hertford- 
shire, corresponded  exactly  with  that  of  Sue  as  repre- 
sented by  the  novelettes.  Eoger  had  never  seen  her 
reading  those;  he  thought  he  knew  all  her  secrets,  but 
there  were  scores  of  novelettes  in  an  old  hat  box,  and 
one  of  them,  Sir  Lucius  and  His  Love,  had  been  wept 
upon  once  or  twice.  Or  perhaps  the  stains  were  but- 
ter. Eoger  felt  better  when  Miss  Ponkey  took  over 
the  responsibility  for  Sue's  rise  in  life.  She  was  so 
comforting. 

"  You  see,"  said  Roger  airily,  "  she's  met  very  few 
people  .  .  .  living  in  the  colonies  .  .  ." 

"  I  quite  understand,"  said  Miss  Ponkey. 

"  She's  been  isolated,"  he  went  on.  "  And  one  does 
pick  things  up  from  the  servants." 

"  I  quite  understand,"  said  Miss  Ponkey. 

To  the  very  end  of  their  intercourse  Eoger  never  ob- 
tained from  Miss  Ponkey  more  than  that  she  quite 
understood.  He  violently  hoped  that  she  did  not. 

But  still  there  was  to  be  chaos  in  his  mind  that  night, 
for  Miss  Ponkey  had  not  yet  been  sought  and  found. 
It  was  a  mythical  Miss  Ponkey  filled  his  mind.  Now 
he  had  to  go  down,  for  at  seven  o'clock,  that  hour  so 
cunningly  calculated  for  meetings  as  to  prevent  one 
from  having  dinner,  he  must  sit  on  the  platform  while 
a  Labour  Member  discoursed  upon  nature  study  and 
the  democracy. 

It  seemed  strange,  for  he  had  been  very  little  at  the 
Settlement  of  late  months.  Churton  was  still  there; 
so  was  Platt,  a  little  worn  because  the  dissolution  had 
not  yet  happened.  Mrs.  Eamsey  had  shifted  some  of 
her  interest  in  the  white  slave  traffic  on  to  the  enquiries 
as  to  606  which  had  just  made  the  Medical  Congress 
into  a  society  function;  Miss  Miskin  was  no  longer 
Miss  Miskin,  for  she  had  married  a  poet  of  nineteen 


who  often  came  to  the  Settlement  and  recited  to  St. 
Panwich  sonnets  about  golden  galleons  and  pomegran- 
ates. 

The  Labour  Member  was  not  very  interesting.  He 
was  one  of  the  now  defunct  Liblabs,  anxious  to  be  a 
gentleman  among  labour  men  and  a  workingman  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  He  quoted  abundantly  of  course 
Thoreau,  Richard  Jefferies,  Gilbert  White.  There  was 
an  excursus  upon  gardening.  But  gardening  fatally  led 
him  into  sociological  byways,  for  as  St.  Panwich  shifted 
its  feet  and  coughed,  the  Liblab  found  himself  drawn 
to  the  allotments  on  waste  lands  in  London  destined  for 
the  deserving  poor  and  perhaps  for  the  others.  The 
land  question  hovered,  then  settled;  it  burgeoned  into 
housing,  into  drink.  The  country  side  was  abashed. 
By  swifter  and  swifter  transitions  the  Liblab  fastened 
upon  class  contrasts,  the  essence  of  class. 

"  I'm  not  one  of  those  socialists,"  he  went  on,  with 
a  determined  air  of  trying  to  get  a  laugh.  "  I  don't 
want  to  do  away  with  classes.  I  only  want  to  make 
them  fluid."  He  grew  benignant.  "  Man  is  not  evil, 
it's  society  makes  him  so.  One  only  has  to  know  one 
another  to  see  one  another's  good  points.  I  always  tell 
the  wife  that,  when  she  complains  of  the  neighbours. 
But  classes  want  a  bit  of  mixing.  They  only  want  do- 
ing away  with  the  water-tight  doors  between  their 
respective  spheres.  When  I'm  Prime  Minister  there 
shall  be  scholarships  to  allow  all  nice  working-girls  to 
marry  Piccadilly  Johnnies  (Laughter).  They  aren't 
so  bad,  the  Piccadilly  Johnnies,  and  if  they  had  nice 
sensible  girls  .  .  ." 

He  suddenly  perceived  Huncote  who  sat  six  feet  off 
with  a  burning  blush  upon  his  face.  He  paused.  The 
Liblab  had  been  at  the  Settlement  before,  and  he  re- 
membered something.  He  went  on  talking  about  mix- 
ing the  classes  and,  being  a  practised  Member  of 
Parliament,  did  not  have  to  think  of  what  he  was 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS     36Y 

saying.  Suddenly  he  remembered  the  story.  Of 
course  that  was  the  man;  Huncote,  yes,  that  was  he. 
His  heart  swelled;  what  an  oratorical  chance!  Sud- 
denly the  M.P.  seemed  to  grow  larger.  With  a  cor- 
onating sweep  of  the  arm  he  pointed  to  Huncote  and 
shouted : 

"  And  what  better  evidence  d'you  want  than  the  case 
which  is  in  your  midst  ?  " 

Huncote  shrank;  he  felt  he  was  the  case  and  yet 
could  not  run  away.  He  was  paralysed. 

"  Here  you  have  among  you  a  young  man,  nurtured 
in  one  of  our  most  ancient  universities.  A  young  man, 
respected  and  honoured  of  all  who  know  him  in  St. 
Panwich  .  .  ."  There  was  a  little  cheering  and  clap- 
ping from  the  front  ranks  who  understood  the  connec- 
tion between  this  and  Huncote. 

"  This  young  man  did  not  seek  a  bride  in  Mayfair. 
!N~o,  Mr.  Huncote,  if  I  may  name  him  "  (abundant  ap- 
plause), "grew  aware  of  the  necessity  for  the  reunion 
of  the  classes.  This  young  man  towards  whom  I  point  " 
(and  he  did  point)  "  wedded  a  daughter  of  the  people." 
Huncote  leaped  up  and  tumbled  rather  than  jumped 
from  the  platform.  But  as  he  went,  head  down,  eyes 
half-shut,  the  outstretched  arm  of  the  M.P.  still  fol- 
lowed him,  holding  out  a  wreath  of  laurel,  speeding  his 
flight  with  these  words :  "  Mr.  Huncote  is  one  of  the 
men  of  whom  we  want  more." 

That  evening,  much  later,  when  he  had  drunk  more 
than  usual- to  try  and  forget,  he  had  a  hateful  little  row 
with  Sue.  She  had  been  to  the  gas  company  to  com- 
plain about  the  gas-ring  in  his  bedroom  on  which  he 
heated  milk  when  he  came  home  very  late.  He  went 
into  her  bedroom  to  tell  her  it  still  did  not  work  and  to 
ask  whether  she  had  gone  around  to  the  company. 

"  I  did  go,"  said  Sue  reluctantly.  "  But  I  forgot  the 
address,  and  so  when  I  nearly  got  there  I  couldn't  find 
the  place.  It  was  too  late  to  go  back," 


368     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"Couldn't  find  the  address?"  said  Roger.  "But 
why  didn't  you  look  into  the  telephone  book  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  telephone,"  said  Sue. 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  he  said  acidly.  "  I  mean  why 
didn't  you  look  in  the  telephone  book  and  go  to  the 
address  it  gave  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  still  blank.  "  But  if  I'd  gone 
home  to  look  into  the  telephone  book  I  might  as  well 
have  got  the  address  off  their  bill  ?  " 

He  felt  a  rage  rise  in  him. 

"  Didn't  it  strike  you  to  go  into  a  shop  or  a  call-office 
and  look  at  the  book  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Sue,  defensive,  "  how  was  I  to  know 
they  were  on  the  telephone?" 

He  did  not  reply.  It  would  have  been  impossibly 
snobbish  to  tell  her  that  in  her  new  world  everybody  she 
could  possibly  want,  whether  public  or  private,  would 
be  on  the  telephone.  He  did  not  think  he  could  explain 
that.  As  he  went  to  sleep  he  thought  again  of  this  mix- 
ing of  the  classes.  Oil  and  water,  the  Liblab  had  called 
them.  Yes,  you  could  mix  them  by  shaking  them  up 
together,  hard,  and  nobody  knew  what  the  oil  and  water 
felt  about  that.  But  how  quickly  they  separated  when 
you  no  longer  shook  them. 

II 

Yes,  he  had  relied  too  much  upon  environment.  He 
had  not  been  precise  enough,  and  rather  bitterly  he 
wondered  whether  he  would  feel  as  he  did  if  Miss 
Ponkey  and  all  that  she  implied  had  come  nine  months 
ago.  But  he  knew  he  must  look  forward,  not  back- 
wards. That  though  it  might  seem  too  late  it  might 
not  be  too  late.  At  the  same  time  he  knew  that  his  store 
of  patience  was  small.  He  thought  of  the  dress,  of  the 
difficulty  with  the  knocker,  of  the  difficulty  with  the  gas 
company ;  he  dug  up  from  his  memory  these  cruel  trifles, 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS     369 

tumblers,  jam,  the  wearing  of  jewellery,  little  things 
that  strike  so  much  deeper  than  the  worship  of  a  differ- 
ent god.  He  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether  he  could 
stick  it,  whether  indeed  he  could  remain  one  of  the  men 
of  whom  we  want  more. 

He  could,  it  seemed.  One  afternoon,  a  little  later, 
pursuing  the  plan  made  in  the  attic,  they  went  to  the 
Tate  Gallery.  It  was  a  soft,  filmy  day,  and  the  Thames 
outside  criticised  the  Turners.  Sue  went  by  his  side 
respectfully,  a  little  awed  because  they  had  made  her 
leave  her  parasol,  a  ceremonial  thing  to  do.  For  some 
time  they  wandered  in  the  Gallery,  while  Huncote  for- 
got that  he  was  educating  his  wife.  He  had  not  been 
to  the  Tate  for  five  or  six  years,  and  it  was  queer  to 
recognise  so  many  pictures  from  picture  postcards, 
Christmas  annuals,  or  "  The  Hundred  Best  Pictures 
For  A  Workingman."  He  recognised  "  The  Doctor  " 
and  "  Derby  Day."  Why !  It  was  like  going  to  one 
of  Shakespeare's  plays  and  discovering  that  it  was  made 
up  entirely  of  quotations.  He  grew  dubious  too,  for 
his  taste  was  maturer  than  it  had  been  five  years  be- 
fore, and  he  began  to  wonder  whether  an  afternoon  at 
the  Tate  was  educational  or  degrading.  Still,  you  must 
crawl  before  you  run, —  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

They  stopped  before  a  picture  of  three  little  children 
dancing.  They  looked  like  boiled  veal. 

"  They're  having  a  good  time,"  said  Sue. 

He  did  not  reply,  and  she  felt  she  had  said  the  wrong 
thing.  She  wished  she  had  asked  Miss  Ponkey  what  to 
say  when  you  looked  at  a  picture.  She  felt  that  "  oo  " 
or  "  very  nice  "  was  inadequate.  So  she  said  nothing 
when  she  was  dragged  from  Turner  to  Turner  and  told 
that  a  vision  of  Venice  might  be  seen  on  Millbank  by  an 
artist's  eye.  Indeed  Roger  went  on  for  a  long  time, 
trying  to  place  Turner,  which  he  found  difficult;  he 
could  not  help  being  pleased  by  the  flaming  opals  of  the 
man's  work,  and  yet  he  suspected  the  brilliant  mists 


370     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

that  Turner  saw  at  the  Nore  of  being  a  trick,  a  clever 
discovery,  a  sort  of  American  stunt.  When  he  had 
done  with  his  criticism  and  tried  to  make  Sue  remember 
the  "  Nocturne  of  Battersea  Bridge  "  and  make  her  say 
that  Whistler  was  rather  like  Turner,  she  remarked: 

"  Why  are  they  so  shiny  ?  " 

This  did  not  exasperate  him  as  much  as  it  ought  to 
have,  for  he  was  able  to  explain  the  changes  that  had 
come  about  in  glazing  since  the  sixteenth  century,  to 
talk  of  painting  upon  the  white  as  opposed  to  direct 
laying  on.  And  so  they  wandered  on,  she  very  respect- 
ful, a  little  bored  but  expecting  only  to  be  bored  because 
this  in  a  way  was  lessons.  He  tried  to  detain  her  before 
a  nude,  but  she  turned  away  with  a  scarlet  face.  Well, 
it  was  a  very  nude  nude,  Leighton's.  It  embarrassed 
Sue  horribly.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Roger  to  call  it 
the  bath  of  Sikey,  but  it  looked  like  a  lady  taking  off 
her  chemise,  and  she  did  not  think  it  nice.  He  teased 
her  about  it  until  she  turned. 

"You  wouldn't  like  me  photographed  in  my  bath, 
would  you  ? " 

He  found  that  difficult  to  answer  and  was  driven  into 
saying  he  would  be  quite  willing  to  hang  a  nude  picture 
of  her  in  the  drawing-room  if  it  was  beautiful,  which  he 
did  not  mean  at  all.  Then  he  grew  angry  with  her 
because  she  had  made  him  say  something  he  did  not 
mean.  And  he  felt  priggish  and  superior. 

They  went  on  from  picture  to  picture,  Sue  remarking 
at  intervals  that  one  might  think  they  were  walking  out 
of  the  frame.  She  developed  enthusiasm  for  the  por- 
trait of  a  hot  ham,  one  of  those  steaming  hams  whose 
influence,  together  with  that  of  cabbage,  can  never  be 
restricted  to  the  kitchen.  He  tried  to  drag  her  away, 
but  she  was  enthralled. 

"  My !  "  she  said,  "  it  makes  you  feel  quite  hungry." 

For  a  moment  he  was  hopeful :  after  all  that  was  not 
quite  pictorial  emotion,  but  he  was  furnishing  her  mind, 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS    371 

he  must  not  forget  that.  So  he  made  her  repeat  a  few 
names :  "  The  Doctor ",  by  Luke  Fildes,  "  Derby 
Day  ",  by  Frith.  He  even  tried  to  lodge  the  names  of 
Adrian  Stokes  and  of  Robert  Brough  in  her  mind.  She 
was  obedient.  From  time  to  time  as  the  afternoon  went 
on  he  caught  a  murmur  behind  him;  "  '  The  Doctor ' 
by  Frith,  <  Derby  Day '  by  Robert  Brough  .  .  ." 

These  good  intentions  were  maddening.  He  could 
not  keep  her  away  from  details.  In  a  large  scene  it 
seemed  impossible  to  make  her  see  more  than  one  char- 
acter in  a  corner,  who  was  pouring  out  wine  as  like  as 
life.  "  The  Death  of  Chatterton  "  was  obviously  to  her 
a  bit  of  cinema. 

"  My !  he's  poisoned  himself,"  she  remarked,  in  a 
whisper.  He  was  saddened  less  by  Sue  perhaps  than 
by  this  environing  atmosphere  of  mediocrity,  of  obvious- 
ness,—  a  whole  crowd  of  painters  who,  it  seemed,  most 
of  their  lives  had  crawled  upon  the  earth  like  worms, 
never  having  the  decency  to  get  underground.  True, 
there  was  the  Stokes  "  Autumn  Evening  ",  fading  light 
and  dying  brilliance,  night  wedded  with  the  day  that 
tarried  on  the  striated  white  slopes.  Yes,  just  a  few, 
but  how  dreadful  to  feel  it  was  almost  accident.  He 
grew  bitter  and  thought:  Sometimes  the  good  Chan- 
trey  nods. 

They  were  tired,  they  felt  dusty.  The  air  had  that 
sharp,  resounding  feel  which  it  always  has  in  picture 
galleries.  They  dragged  their  feet  as  if  they  felt  that 
picture  galleries  have  the  hardest  floors  in  the  world. 
They  had  nearly  gone  round  when  they  got  to  "  King 
Cophetua  And  The  Beggarmaid."  Without  knowing 
why,  they  stood  there  for  a  long  time,  touched  perhaps 
by  the  romance  of  it,  the  girl  with  her  frightened  eyes 
incredulous,  and  the  warrior  king  abased,  humble  and 
transfigured  with  his  doffed  crown.  He  told  her  the 
story,  quoting  the  lines  from  Romeo  and  Juliet: 
"  Young  Adam  Cupid,  he  that  shot  so  trim,  When  King 


372     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

Cophetua  loved  the  beggar  maid."     He  told  her  the 
story,  and  just  at  the  very  end,  while  she  stood  listen- 
ing to  his  words  that  grew  romantic,  while  she  sought 
to  improve  her  mind,  he  suddenly  saw  an  application. 
"  I'm    Cophetua,"    he   thought.     For   a   moment   the 
knowledge  was  intoxicating.     He  felt  uplifted  by  the 
doffing  of  his  crown.     For  a  fleeting  second  he  under- 
stood the  pride  that  lies  in  Christian  humility. 
"  And  what  happened  next  ?  "  asked  Sue. 
"  Well,"  said  Roger,  "  they  got  married." 
"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Sue.     "  Wonder  how  they  got  on  ?  " 
It  hurt  him,  that  question,  though  Sue  did  not  apply 
the  situation  to  herself.     It  was  a  bitterly  amusing  idea 
anyhow.     All  these  matches  of  romance,  how  did  they 
work  ?     Did  Pygmalion  ever  quarrel  with  Galatea  when 
he  got  a  bill : 

Dr.  Pygmalion  Esq. : 

1  chiton   , 200  drachma. 

1  himation  (Mitylene  model)   . . .  400  drachma. 

He  thought  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  too.  Had  they 
lived  and  married  he  could  foresee  that  with  tempers 
such  as  theirs  there  were  endless  possibilities.  Notably 
the  Capulets  and  the  Montagues  would  have  been  the 
most  troublesome  relations-in-law  you  could  imagine. 

They  went  out.  For  a  moment  in  the  hall  they 
paused  where  in  a  basin  the  live  goldfish  go  around  and 
around,  processional,  patient  and  eternal. 

"  Those  fish  have  a  dull  life,"  said  Sue. 

He  did  not  reply.  He  was  thinking  that  anyhow 
they  were  alive.  He  saw  the  sun  shine  through  their 
undulating  fins.  It  thrilled  him  after  so  much  dead 
paint. 

He  wondered  a  little  later  how  much  he  had  drawn 
from  this  visit,  from  others  which  he  forced  upon  her 
to  the  National  Gallery,  to  Dulwich.  He  even  took 
her  to  the  Soane  Museum  and  tried  to  make  her  like 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS     373 

the  Hogarths,  which  she  thought  very  coarse.  There 
was  music  too,  a  few  concerts  of  the  lighter  kind  which 
admitted  "  Carmen "  and  even  "  Pomp  and  Circum- 
stance." She  liked  these,  for  she  could  catch  the  tune 
and  soon  maddened  him  by  humming  "  Habanera " 
all  over  the  house.  But  resolutely  he  administered 
"  1812  ",  and,  by  means  of  a  violinist,  Ernst's  "  Airs 
Busses."  She  went  on  gloomily,  resignedly.  One's 
got  to  know  these  things  when  one's  a  lady,  not  dropping 
one's  h's,  talking  about  Shakespeare,  having  one's  boots 
made  for  one,  and  there  you  were.  She  quoted  to  her- 
self from  the  posters :  "  It's  so  simple."  And  yet 
she  was  unhappy  sometimes,  for  she  felt  that  she  had 
said  the  wrong  thing.  She  never  managed  to  say  what 
she  felt.  She  was  always  saying  what  she  thought  she 
ought,  and  she  always  thought  wrong.  When  she  felt 
at  all  she  always  felt  right,  but  that  she  could  not  tell. 
One  afternoon,  when  they  were  having  tea  at  the  Carl- 
ton,  she  was  moved  almost  to  tears  by  an  arrangement 
from  "  La  Boheme."  She  wondered  why  Koger  got  so 
angry  and  said  that  Puccini's  music  embodied  the  pas- 
sions of  a  literary  hairdresser.  Still,  she  supposed  one 
did  get  blown  up  now  and  then  when  one  was  being  edu- 
cated. 


Ill 

"  But  still,"  said  Roger,  "  I  don't  understand  why 
you  didn't  have  him  arrested." 

Sue  looked  mutinous  and  went  on  making  bread  pills. 

"  There  wasn't  much  in  the  bag,"  she  said. 

"  That's  not  what  I'm  asking  you ;  you  tell  me  this 
man  snatched  your  bag  outside  Barker's,  and  you  did 
nothing  ? " 

"  He  ran  away,"  said  Sue. 

"  But  you  said  he  didn't  run  very  fast,  owing  to  the 
crowd." 


374     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

No  reply.  Roger  was  interested  as  well  as  irritated. 
He  persisted. 

"  There  was  a  policeman  near,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  perhaps  the  poor  man  needed  the  money," 
said  Sue. 

"  Very  likely ;  still,  I  won't  lecture  you  about  the 
right  to  steal.  Was  that  why  you  let  him  off  ?  " 

She  made  an  effort  to  tell  a  lie  and  with  her  usual 
incapacity  failed. 

"  Makes  a  lot  of  trouble,"  she  said  shortly. 

"  Trouble  ?     What  trouble  ?  " 

"  You've  got  to  go  to  the  police  court  and,  there's  no 
knowing,  you  might  get  into  the  papers.  They  photo- 
graph you,  they  do." 

Eoger  felt  dense. 

"  But  whatever  does  that  matter  ?  You've  done 
nothing  wrong !  " 

"  Makes  a  lot  of  trouble,"  Sue  replied,  with  an  air 
of  elucidation.  Then,  feeling  this  inadequate,  she  said : 
ft  My  mother  .  .  ."  She  paused,  and  Roger  had  a  sec- 
ond of  satisfaction :  Miss  Ponkey  had  expelled  "  Ma  " 
and  substituted  "  My  mother." 

"  Well  3 " 

"  My  mother  always  says,  whatever  you  do,  whatever 
happens,  don't  get  into  the  papers." 

Huncote  thought  this  over  for  some  time.  It  was 
very  curious. 

He  understood  in  a  vague  way.  He  had  heard 
something  like  this  before  in  St.  Panwich.  Yes, 
they  did  think  it  was  disgraceful  to  get  into  the 
newspapers.  Why  ?  he  wondered.  Was  it  that  they 
were  never  quite  sure  who  was  witness  and  who  was 
prisoner  ?  Or  just  that  they  had  a  sort  of  animal  fear 
of  being  watched  by  the  powerful  lest  the  powerful 
should  do  them  some  harm  ?  Rabbits  run  to  earth.  A 
humorous  idea  struck  him. 

"  Oh !  "  he  said.     "  I  see.     But  lots  of  people  don't 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS    375 

mind  getting  into  the  papers.  Look  at  the  breach  of 
promise  cases." 

"That's  different,"  said  Sue.  "One  has  one's 
rights." 

"  But  surely  you've  as  much  right  to  your  bag  as  to  a 
promised  husband  ?  More,  in  fact.  A  bag's  more  per- 
manent." 

"  It's  different,"  said  Sue.  "  When  a  girl's  been 
made  a  fool  of,  don't  you  think  she  wants  everybody 
down  her  way  to  know  she's  had  her  rights  ? " 

He  laughed.  "  Oh !  A  sort  of  warning  to  the 
next  ? " 

"  How  can  you  ?  "  said  Sue.  She  looked  rather  of- 
fended: one  might  make  jokes  about  marriage  but  not 
about  proper  pride. 

He  stuck  to  his  point. 

"  And  I  s'pose  that  the  published  damages  also  serve 
as  an  advertisement  for  Number  2  ?  " 

"  I  think  you're  horrid,"  said  Sue.     But  she  smiled. 

It  was  only  later,  as  he  thought  again,  that  this 
strange  inconsistency  struck  him.  One  might  not  go 
into  court  to  prosecute  a  thief  but  one  might  prosecute 
a  lover.  Was  that  because  in  the  first  case  one  had  had 
something  taken  from  one  and  in  the  second  had  gra- 
ciously given  it  ?  Or  some  other  obscure  motive  ?  Or 
was  it  more  simple,  that  damages  could  vanquish  the 
reluctance  of  the  rabbits  to  come  out  and  be  seen  ? 
Probably.  Probably  too  the  whole  thing  rested  on  a 
deep  distrust  of  print,  print  that  represents  the  demand 
note  for  rates,  the  summons,  all  sorts  of  uncomfortable 
things.  He  did  not  like  it:  this  was  not  reserve,  it 
was  the  fear  of  the  savage.  For  a  moment  he  won- 
dered whether,  paradox  or  not,  there  was  not  more 
refinement  in  the  actresses  who  allowed  themselves  to  be 
photographed  to  advertise  a  dentifrice. 

He  thought  of  this  reserve  later  that  evening,  though 
they  had  set  it  aside  to  read  poetry.  He  had  hesitated 


376     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

a  good  deal ;  lie  did  not  know  how  to  begin.  He  believed 
that  in  the  people's  heart  slumbered  a  great  desire  for 
melody,  and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  read  the  wrong  things. 
Cadoresse  had  spoken  to  him  about  that  at  the  Settle- 
ment, when  he  hung  about  electioneering.  He  remem- 
bered that  the  Frenchman  had  said  that  one  could  al- 
ways work  on  women  with  a  bit  of  poetry  if  other 
methods  failed.  Cadoresse  had  even  quoted  some 
poetry  which,  he  said,  he  found  most  efficacious,  but  it 
was  not  the,  sort  of  poetry  Huncote  liked.  He  vaguely 
remembered  that  it  was  rather  voluptuous,  and  he  did 
not  possess  that  gilt  French  voice.  So  he  thought  he 
had  better  please  himself. 

You  will  figure  them  in  the  drawing-room  on  a  hot 
July  night.  Sue  is  sitting  upon  the  sofa,  very  dark 
against  the  gay  chintzes.  She  cannot  be  seen  very  well, 
for  there  is  little  light  save. from  the  moon  that  makes 
a  broad,  pale  bar  across  the  carpet.  At  only  one  point 
is  the  light  bright,  by  a  shaded  lamp.  In  its  little 
golden  sun  hangs  Roger's  head,  very  black  against  the 
light,  its  profile  determined  and  fine,  eyes  bent  upon  the 
book,  half  conscious  of  the  sturdy  figure  that  dutifully 
listens  as  it  plays  with  its  fingers.  He  reads  —  Blake : 

"...  On  the  shadows  of  the  moon, 

Climbing  thro'  Night's  highest  noon : 
In  Time's  ocean  falling,  drown'd: 
In  aged  ignorance  profound, 
Holy  and  cold,  I  clipp'd  the  wings 
Of  all  sublunary  things, 
And  in  the  depths  of  my  dungeons 
Closed  the  father  and  the  sons.  .  .  ." 

She  listened  dutifully  to  that  poem.  Words  hurtled 
in  her  head, — "  mandrake  "  and  a  funnier  one  still, 
"  herfamodite."  While  she  wondered  who  or  what  was 
in  the  depths  of  dungeons  she  was  still  oppressed  by  the 
beginning  of  the  poem.  She  could  not  see  that  a  cater- 
pillar on  a  leaf  could  remind  anybody  of  a  mother's 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS     377 

grief.  It  lasted  such  a  long  time ;  Koger  went  on  read- 
ing, intoxicating  himself  with  the  vision  of  horror  and 
holies,  with  the  dream  stuff  of  the  phrases.  He  was  all 
thrilled  and  hot,  for  in  Blake  he  could  always  glimpse 
heaven  and  hell  combatant,  as  Blake  may  have  glimpsed 
them  through  a  glass  darkly,  as  Verlaine,  through  a 
green  mist  of  absinthe,  as  Francis  Thompson,  with  a 
brain  excited  and  entrails  twisting  in  starvation.  He 
read  for  a  long  time ;  he  quite  forgot  her.  Rising  and 
falling  with  the  rhythm  he  dragged  his  pupil  through 
tales  of  harlots  who  once  were  virgins,  to  the  gate  of 
pearl  and  gold,  through  the  pageant  of  azure-winged 
angels,  ecstatic  suns,  stars  blinded  with  their  own  radi- 
ance. Accidentally  he  read  her  the  poem  "  To  .the 
Jews  ",  and  as  he  read  came  closer  to  earth.  It  was 
amusing,  this  song  of  London  boroughs.  He  stopped  a 
little  before  the  end.  "  D'you  like  it  ?  "  he  asked  sud- 
denly. 

Sue  did  not  reply.  She  remembered  two  extraor- 
dinary lines : 

".  .  .  What  are  those  golden  builders  doing 

Near  mournful  ever-weeping  Paddington.  .  .  ." 

This  sounded  familiar  but  queer.  She  had  a  dim  idea 
that  they  might  be  extending  Paddington  Station,  but 
fortunately  dared  not  say  so;  indeed  she  had  no  need 
to  comment,  for  her  husband  remarked : 

"  H'm,  perhaps  that's  hardly  what  I  ought  to  read  to 
you,  though,  of  course,  you  feel  the  rhythm,  the  music, 
don't  you  ? " 

"  Oo,  yes,"  said  Sue,  "  only  I  don't  understand  al- 
ways." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  many  of  us  don't.  You  might  as 
well  ask  to  understand  the  mystery  of  life  and  death. 
It's  just  an  emotion.  But  I  oughtn't  to  have  read  you 
that,  I  think.  Now  what  ought  I  to  read  you  ? "  He 
picked  up  the  Oxford  Book  of  Verse,  opened  it  at  ran- 


378     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

dom.  "Poe,  yes,  Poe.  Oh,  bother!  They  haven't 
put  '  The  Eaven  '  in,  still  ..."  He  read  her  "  Anna- 
bel Lee."  Sue  felt  much  comforted;  she  liked  the 
jingle.  She  was  a  little  barbaric ;  she  would  have  liked 
Indian  music  on  the  tomtoms.  He  read  on : 

".  .  .  For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling  —  my  darling  —  my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea." 

He  looked  up ;  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  said : 
"  Read  it  again,  not  all,  just  that  last  bit." 
Thrilled  by  the  love  cry  he  shrank  a  little  as  she  said 
"  the  last  bit  ",  but  still  he  read,  and  when  he  looked  up, 
"  in  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea  "  still  echoing  in  his 
ears,  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  wet.  His  heart  grew 
big  and  heavy  with  hope.  He  was  excited,  he  wanted 
to  read  more  poetry,  he  wanted  to  please  her  more,  to 
do  more  than  bring  tears  to  her  eyes.  And  so  he  grew 
cunning,  he  searched  the  book.  A  few  pages  further 
was  Tennyson.  He  knew  she  would  like  Tennyson. 
Had  she  not  at  once  picked  up :  "  'Tis  better  to  have 
loved  and  lost  than  never  to  have  loved  at  all  ?  "  He 
opened  the  selected  Tennyson. at  random,  as  he  did  not 
find  what  he  wanted  in  the  Oxford  Book.  He  chanced 
upon  the  poem  "  To  The  Queen."  He  read  on  for  a 
while,  but  it  felt  so  dull.  He  stopped  at  the  lines : 

".  .  .  And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 

Who  knew  the  seasons,  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 
The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet.  .  .  ." 

He  suddenly  felt  that  this  was  not  enough ;  he  must 
force  her  to  be  articulate. 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS     379 

"  Sue,"  he  said,  "  what  does  all  that  make  you  think 
of?" 

She  seemed  startled.  If  he  was  going  to  question 
her,  well.  "  Oo,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  know.  Solemn." 

"  That's  not  bad,"  said  Roger  encouragingly.  "  This 
is  not  the  first  hit  of  Tennyson  I've  read  you."  (And 
he  did  not  notice  that  he  had  said  "  a  bit  of  Tennyson  " 
while  he  shrank  when  she  said  "  a  bit  of  Poe.") 
"  That's  not  bad ;  what  does  it  make  you  think  of  ?  " 

Sue  tried  very  hard,  then  said :  "  I  hardly  know. 
Funny  sort  of  big  place." 

"  Big  place  ?     What  sort  of  place  ? " 

"  I  d'know ;  well,  something  like  the  town  hall  at  St. 
Panwich,  with  the  red  plush  and  the  chandeliers." 

He  stared  at  her.  "  Sue,"  he  said,  "  what's  hap- 
pened to  you  ?  You've  criticised  England  between  1850 
and  the  Jubilee  of  1887." 

She  did  not  reply.  He  did  not  press  his  advantage. 
He  wondered  whether  this  was  a  fluke.  Well,  he  would 
see,  and  he  read  on.  He  read  her  "  The  Lady  of  Sha- 
lott "  after  explaining  briefly  who  were  Lancelot  and 
Galahad.  She  seemed  unmoved,  and  "  Mariana " 
merely  caused  her  to  ask  why  in  poetry  people  were 
always  wishing  they  were  dead.  He  knew  there  was  a 
certain  amount  of  reason  in  that  complaint,  and  when 
he  tried  to  explain  he  discovered  how  difficult  it  might 
be  to  explain  anything.  She  had  already  been  trouble- 
some when  he  read  "  To  Anthea  "  and  tried  to  guess  at 
what  Herrick  meant  by : 

".  .  .  Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 
Thy  Protestant  to  be.  .  .  ." 

She  was  liking  Tennyson  though  so  much  that  she  in- 
sisted upon  trying  to  learn  by  heart : 

"  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
For  the  black  bat,  Night,  has  flown, 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 


380     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 

And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown.  .  .  ." 

As  the  evening  waned,  he  grew  more  venturesome. 
He  dipped  into  Swinburne,  into  Whitman.  But  he  felt 
she  did  not  like  them,  especially  Whitman.  Swoons  in 
poppy  beds  and  women  with  giant  breasts  —  well,  it 
was  not  quite  proper. 

"  Sue,"  he  asked,  at  last,  "  is  this  the  first  time  you've 
ever  read  any  poetry  or  had  any  read  to  you  ?  " 

"  You  seem  to  think  I  don't  know  anything,"  she 
said,  rather  touchily.  "  A  lady  came  along  years  ago, 
and  she  gave  me  something  by  —  I  don't  quite  remem- 
ber the  name,  I  think  it's  Eliza  Wilcox.  I  always  did 
like  poetry,  especially  the  funny  kind." 

"  Funny  ?  "  asked  Roger.  He  reflected  that  humor- 
ous verse  was  not  so  common. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  there  was  a  very  funny  one  I  heard 
once  at  a  social.  I  learnt  it  by  heart." 

"  D'you  remember  it  ?  "  asked  Eoger,  curious. 

"  Not  much  of  it,"  said  Sue.  "  It  was  called  '  The 
Wreck  of  the  Raspberry  Jam."  Here's  a  bit  I  re- 
member : 

"  One  chap  was  discoursing  on  Darwin,  and  said : 
'  The  professor  was  right  through  and  through. 
We  did,  spring  from  monkeys.'     Another  one  said: 
'  I  believe  it  when  I  look  at  you.' " 

She  stopped.     "  There's  some  more,  but  I've  forgotten 
it." 

"  Oh,"  said  Roger,  "  it  doesn't  matter." 
She  looked  at  him  quickly :     "  You  don't  like  it  ?  " 
"  Well,"    he    began,    attempting    indulgence,    "  it's 
hardly  — "     His  attempt  failed.     "  After  what  we've 
been  reading  to-night  —  Oh,  Sue,  it's  dreadful,  dread- 
ful.    Oh,   Sue,   don't  you  understand?     This  sort  of 
stuff  —  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  be  superior.     Only  —  that 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS     381 

tit  for  tat,  that  sort  of  cheap  answer.  It's  vulgar,  it's 
cockney.  Oh,  Sue,  this  is  dreadful,  dreadful !  " 

"  I  don't  see  anything  dreadful  in  it." 

Roger  made  a  despairing  sound.  Sue  was  hurt,  so 
his  dejection  angered  her.  She  hated  him  just  then  as 
one  hates  a  dog  upon  whose  paw  one  has  trodden.  She 
was  vicious : 

"  Tell  you  what,  it's  a  good  deal  more  decent  than 
the  broad-breasted  what  you  call  it  you  were  reading 
about." 

"  Whitman,"  said  Eoger  gloomily. 

"  If  you  ask  me,  I  call  it  horrid,"  said  Sue. 

"  I  didn't  ask  you,"  he  snarled. 

At  once  he  felt  abased.  A  cockney  answer  from  him ! 
This  was  contagious.  It  was  not  enough  that  she  should 
have  sold  him  short-weight  happiness;  now  she  was 
going  to  degrade  him  in  his  own  eyes.  For  a  moment 
he  thought  of  her  as  a  vampire  flourishing  as  he  with- 
ered. That  gave  him  a  thrill  of  martyrdom.  But  he 
was  too  young  to  be  a  martyr ;  he  was  still  a  lover,  he 
wanted  to  take,  not  give.  And  here  was  Sue  picking 
up  his  phrase. 

"  Only  thought  you'd  like  to  know." 

And  he  actually  replied : 

"  Thank  you  for  nothing." 

And  she  automatically  said :     "  Don't  thank  me." 

And  he  thought :  "  It's  a  longish  way  from  St. 
Panwich  to  Pembroke  Square,  but  it  seems  shorter  the 
other  way  about." 

He  leapt  to  his  feet ;  he  felt  the  need  for  activity.  He 
switched  on  the  light.  For  a  moment  they  remained 
standing  before  each  other,  silent  and  inimical.  It  was 
not  that  they  had  differed  about  poetry;  it  was  worse. 
It  was  that  they  found  themselves  entirely  parted  by 
their  tastes.  And  one  could  not  average,  one  could  not 
compromise  between  Herrick  and  "  The  Wreck  of  the 
Raspberry  Jam."  It  seemed  horribly  serious  to  him 


382     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

who  thought  that  literature  must  march  with  love ;  seri- 
ous to  her  who  in  a  difference  of  opinion  perceived 
assumption  of  superiority.  He  was  superior ;  she  liked 
to  think  that,  but  he  must  not  make  her  feel  it.  She 
wanted  to  be  the  eternal  female,  following  her  man  and 
pretending  that  she  led  him. 

"  Good  night,"  she  said  suddenly. 

He  heard  her  run  up-stairs.  It  was  less  than  a 
minute  before  eleven,  and  he  watched  the  long  hand  of 
the  clock  travel ;  it  went  so  slowly.  Now  that  Sue  had 
gone  the  place  looked  so  queer,  so  unlike  a  battlefield, 
with  its  bright  chintzes,  its  pastoral  prints  upon  the 
blue  and  white  paper.  The  faded  peace  of  the  trans- 
ported eighteenth  century  was  about  him.  But  in  him 
no  peace.  No  anger  now,  but  an  immense  dejection. 
He  felt  with  John  Davidson :  "  I  see  there's  nothing 
right ;  I  hope  to  die  to-night."  (As  is  customary  among 
poets.  Vide  Sue.)  Hopeless.  They  could  never  un- 
derstand each  other.  There  they  were.  For  ever.  It 
was  no  use  getting  angry  about  it.  Better  try  and 
make  the  best  of  it.  He  smiled  vaguely:  didn't  Mrs. 
Groby  say  that  every  cloud  had  a  silver  lining?  He 
laughed.  There  wasn't  much  silver  lining  to  be  seen 
to-night.  Then  weariness  fell  heavier  upon  him. 
Slowly  he  filled  his  pipe  and  lit  it,  but  he  had  smoked 
too  much,  and  it  did  not  quiet  him.  He  thought: 
"  I'll  go  to  bed.  After  all  one  can  always  sleep 
and  escape  the  sleep  of  life  where  too  many  dreams 
come." 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him  he  heard  the  clock 
strike  eleven.  How  swift  his  thoughts  had  been! 
Everything  was  swift  about  him  now:  he  undressed; 
he  did  not  even  brush  his  hair  or  wash ;  he  wanted  only 
to  sleep.  Almost  at  once  he  was  in  blackness.  He  was 
uneasy,  he  stirred.  It  was  oppressive,  the  hot  July 
night  and  the  calling  silence  beyond.  As  he  shifted  he 
remembered  the  horrible  lines  of  Irene  McLeod : 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS    383 

"  Here  I  lie  on  a  feather  bed, 
With  a  feather  pillow  beneath  my  head, 
From  my  feet  up  to  my  chin 
I  feel  my  body  sinking  in; 
And  though  I  writhe  and  turn  about 
I  cannot  lift  my  spirit  out.  .  .  ." 

First  upon  his  right  side  and  then  upon  his  left,  when 
his  cheek  had  crumpled  the  pillow.  Then  no  longer 
upon  his  left,  for  he  had  smoked  too  much  and  his 
heart  would  beat.  He  was  all  nerves  now,  and  the 
blackness  seemed  less;  he  felt  feverish.  A  star  stared 
at  him ;  he  drew  the  sheet  over  his  head  to  blot  it  out, 
but  still  his  heart  beat,  and  the  sheet  made  a  rustling 
against  his  ear.  He  felt  hot,  oppressed.  What  was 
Sue  doing?  he  wondered.  He  heard  no  sound  in  the 
other  room.  He  wondered  whether  she  were  awake. 
He  remembered  that  other  time  when  he  had  found 
her  crying.  Perhaps  she  was  crying  now.  Well,  he 
couldn't  help  it  He  couldn't  do  anything  for  her, 
any  more  than  she  could  for  him.  They'd  have  to  settle 
down  together  and  make  the  best  of  things,  that  was  all. 
Live  a  little  more  separately.  But  as  he  lay  so,  the 
sheet  harsh  against  his  feverish  cheek,  this  idea  of 
independence  chilled  him.  He  was  like  one  of  the  freed 
slaves  after  the  War  of  Secession,  wondering  what  to  do 
with  his  freedom.  And  a  little  pity  ran  through  him 
too,  that  she  should  so  be  left. 

He  started.  He  thought  he  had  heard  a  faint  knock. 
He  listened.  All  his  sinews  tightened :  it  did  not  come 
again.  He  was  almost  sure  she  had  knocked  at  his 
door,  and  through  his  anxiety  ran  an  awful  conscious- 
ness that  he  wished  she  would  knock  again.  He  lis- 
tened, but  still  there  was  no  sound  save  through  the  open 
window  the  soughing  of  the  night  wind  in  the  trees. 
With  sharpened  senses  he  heard  many  sounds  now, 
horses  moving  in  the  mews,  distant  train  rumblings  at 
Addison  Road,  and  subtler  sounds,  the  cracking  of  wood, 


384     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

the  movements  in  the  fabric  of  the  house  that  go  on  in- 
terminably as  it  decays.  Through  all  that  he  listened 
for  the  sound  of  a  knock. 

It  did  not  come.  He  was  conscious  in  himself  of  a 
struggle,  a  complex  struggle,  an  insurgent  hope  that  all 
might  be  well,  fear  lest  again  something  cruel  and  vulgar 
might  come  and,  above  all,  anxiety  to  end  the  present 
anxiety.  It  was  as  if  some  incorporeal  thing  tugged 
at  him.  He  leapt  out  of  bed.  He  was  curiously  de- 
tached, for  he  noticed  the  cold  floor  against  his  feet. 
He  pulled  the  door  open.  There,  framed  in  the  door- 
way, like  a  ghost  in  her  nightgown,  stood  Sue.  In  the 
moonlight  her  feet  upon  the  dark  carpet  were  as  those 
of  a  corpse.  She  stood,  not  looking  at  him,  with  little 
dark  hands  clasped  against  her  breast,  abandoned, 
suppliant.  She  did  not  say  anything  as  he  seized 
her,  drew  her  in.  ISTor  did  he  know  what  he  wanted 
to  say.  Perhaps  nothing;  perhaps  he  was  merely 
trying  to  reconquer  by  emotion  what  his  intellect  re- 
jected. 

She  was  all  pliant  in  his  arms,  and  she  too  said  noth- 
ing. She  knew  only  that  she  had  been  very  unhappy 
for  a  long  time  and  that  in  his  arms  everything  seemed 
all  right.  She  was  passive ;  she  did  not  even  clasp  him 
to  her,  but  just  yielded  herself  in  his  arms.  She  felt 
touched  with  guilt  as  if  once  she  had  refused  herself  to 
him.  She  wanted  into  his  hands  to  remit  herself,  into 
his  hands  .  .  . 

And  now,  still  silent  and  close-clasped  they  lay  in 
each  other's  arms ;  unquestioning,  unexplaining,  they  so 
lay,  breast  to  breast  with  mingled  breaths,  yet  they 
clasped  between  them  a  shadow  that  watched  them. 
They  could  see  it  as  they  clasped  and  kissed,  the  inde- 
cent shadow  of  despair,  daunting  and  grinning  and  cold. 
They  hated  it,  seeing  it  so  well  and  for  its  despite  they 
clasped  closer,  strove  more  to  dominate  and  to  enjoy. 
Warm  against  each  other,  animate  with  desire,  they 


SCENT  OF  DEAD  JONQUILS     385 

fought  the  shadow.  Koger  found  himself  drawing  the 
sheet  over  their  heads  as  if  to  blot  out  the  thing  that 
would  not  go.  She  knew  too,  for  suddenly  her  passivity 
deserted  her ;  she  flung  hot  arms  about  his  neck.  Yes, 
they  had  their  minute,  the  minute  when  with  fled 
thoughts  they  knew  only  what  they  could  touch,  the 
actual.  They  were  each  other's  then  and  violently  con- 
scious that  each  one  was  the  other's,  conquest  and  con- 
queror in  one.  He  knew  her  as  he  had  never  known  her 
before,  the  touch,  the  warmth  of  her,  the  lines  of  her 
body,  the  texture  and  the  scent  of  her  hair,  the  consented 
wedding  of  their  very  essence.  Conquest  rather  than 
sacrifice,  and  determination  by  mutual  conquest  to 
efface  the  hanging  thing  that  watched.  So  he  ground 
her  in  his  arms,  perhaps  that  she  might  no  longer  her- 
self be  but  become  him,  become  a  "  them  ",  faultless  in 
each  other's  eyes  because  made  of  both.  Later,  even 
such  thoughts  as  those  grew  too  transcendental.  They 
knew  only  that  they  were  man  and  woman,  desirous  and 
young.  They  were  violent,  they  were  anxious.  But  in 
their  extremity,  when  at  the  crest  of  their  delight,  when 
speech  ceded  to  murmurs,  a  doom  hung  over  their 
achieved  embrace.  It  was  the  love-making  of  two  peo- 
ple who  did  not  love  each  other  any  more  .  .  . 

Much  later  in  the  night  he  sat  up.  The  dawn  was 
breaking,  swiftly  driving  her  rosy  chariot  behind  her 
orange  steeds.  Sue  lay  asleep,  the  dark  cheek  indented 
upon  the  pillow,  the  hair  curling  like  fern  fronds,  the 
long  lashes  making  blue  shadows  upon  the  olive  cheek. 
She  smiled  as  she  slept  with  the  dew  of  morning  upon 
her  red  open  lips,  as  if  in  the  night  had  come  with  sat- 
isfaction reassurance.  But  he  sat  looking  at  her,  his 
hands  clasping  his  knees.  There  she  lay  in  her  love- 
liness, who  not  long  before  had  indeed  loved  him,  whom 
not  long  before  he  had  loved.  But  a  few  short  hours 
and  in  each  other  they  had  forgotten  the  world,  thought 
to  expel  it.  Kow  the  world  was  waking,  and  the  rosy 


386     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

chariot  of  dawn  already  blenched  in  the  rising  sun. 
Day  was  coming,  and  with  day  the  truth.  It  could  not 
always  be  cloaking  night ;  with  the  sun  must  come  that 
shadow  which  for  a  moment  they  had  blotted  out. 


PART  THE  FOURTH 

LEAVES  OF  HOLLY 


Plus  me  plaist  le  sejour  qu'ont  basty  mes  ayeux, 
Que  des  palais  Remains  le  front  audacieux : 
Plus  que  le  mafbre  dur  me  plaist  1'ardoise  fine, 

Plus  mon  Loyre  Gaulois,  que  le  Tybre  Latin, 
Plus  mon  petit  Lyre,  que  le  mont  Palatin, 
Et  plus  que  1'air  marin  la  doulceur  Angevine. 

(Joachim  du  Bellay.) 


CHAPTER  THE  FIRST 

EAMSGATE   SANDS 


Sun  sat  upon  the  beach  in  a  striped  twopenny  chair. 
Her  rather  awkward  fingers  struggled  with  a  piece  of 
drawn-thread  work  while  Mrs.  Cawder  by  her  side  en- 
couraged her.  She  leaned  over.  "  Now  be  careful, 
count,  twelve  threads."  Sue  obediently  counted  and 
prepared  to  cut.  "  Wait,"  said  Mrs.  Cawder  anx- 
iously, "  don't  cut  yet."  They  counted  again. 
"  There !  you'd  thirteen.  You  must  be  very  careful ; 
if  you  cut  the  wrong  one  the  thing's  spoiled." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Cawder,"  said  Sue  obediently,  then 
blushed,  for  she  knew  she  ought  not  to  have  said  "  Mrs. 
Cawder." 

It  seemed  so  rude,  the  way  these  people  had  of  talk- 
ing, their  grunts,  and  "  whats  "  and  blunt  "  Yeses  " 
and  "  Noes."  Still,  that  was  society.  They  went  on 
with  their  work,  both  of  them,  Mrs.  Cawder  merely 
knitting  a  muffler,  for  her  eyes,  she  said,  were  too  weak 
for  drawn-thread  work.  She  was  extraordinarily  old. 
She  was  one  of  those  old  ladies  with  beautiful  white 
hair  and  a  complexion  like  brown  ivory,  the  kind  that 
has  perfect  hands  and  wears  slightly  starched,  very 
delicate  laces.  Chloe,  a  grandmother ! 

The  work  was  difficult,  but  Sue  liked  to  think  she  was 
doing  it  instead  of  knitting  stockings ;  it  felt  so  refined. 
She  put  it  down  for  a  moment,  thinking  how  refined  she 
was  getting. 

Sue  was  rather  pleased  with  herself  that  morning  on 
Broadstairs  beach.  She  knew  that  Miss  Ponkey  had 


390     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

done  her  good ;  also  she  liked  Miss  Ponkey  and  her  way 
of  saying,  "  I  quite  understand."  One  ended  by  be- 
lieving that,  and  it  was  comfortable.  In  a  way  she  felt 
quite  the  lady ;  her  white  suede  shoes, —  they  too  were 
quite  the  lady.  In  ten  months  she  had  become  con- 
scious of  the  difference  between  her  mother  and  her  old 
friends  on  the  one  hand  and  her  new  friends  on  the 
other.  She  felt  she  could  say  the  right  thing,  well, 
not  always  but  now  and  then.  She  had  ventured  into 
art  criticism  after  seeing  Mr.  Percy  Bigland's  picture, 
"  Life."  She  thought  it  a  wonderful  picture :  A 
youth  standing  near  an  abyss  by  the  side  of  a  beautiful 
girl.  He  was  about  to  plunge  into  the  unknown  but 
was  held  back  by  a  vision,  the  Christ  in  a  dazzling 
gleam.  The  maiden  by  his  side,  a  glowing  emblem  of 
the  whirling  pleasures  of  the  world,  tried  in  vain  to 
shut  out  the  vision  by  shading  his  eyes  with  her  hand. 
The  light  still  streamed  through.  She  found  that  Mrs. 
Forncett  also  liked  that  picture  very  much.  That  had 
led  to  Mrs.  Forncett's  trying  to  teach  her  to  play  golf, 
which  was  not  exactly  the  lesson  of  the  picture  and  its 
emblems  of  an  enticing  world.  Sue  had  gone  further ; 
she  had  given  a  tea  party  on  her  own  and  carried  it  off 
pretty  well :  she  was  not  very  well  up  in  the  pleasures 
of  the  town,  but  she  made  .great  play  with  the  Tate 
Gallery  which  everybody  else  guiltily  felt  they  had  not 
visited  for  years;  that  gave  Sue  superiority.  And 
when  she  said  that  Puccini's  music  was  the  passion  of 
a  literary  hairdresser  her  success  was  enormous. 
Other  things  too :  she  could  take  a  taxi  now,  not  without 
consciousness  but  without  fear;  and  she  could  tip  the 
man  twopence  instead  of  sixpence,  which  she  had  done 
as  soon  as  she  realised  that  she  ought  to  tip  at  all.  All 
this  had  not  made  her  happy;  she  thought  it  had,  but 
as  she  grew  familiar  with  surrounding  comfort  what 
it  had  done  was  to  make  her  feel  swollen  and  important, 
which  is  almost  the  same  thing.  She  even  realised  that 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  391 

The  Toiler  and  The  Bystander  were  more  in  her  new 
line  than  the  halfpenny  picture  papers.  The  Bystander 
lay  on  the  sand  just  then  with  The  Sphere.  Yes,  these 
papers  too  were  quite  the  lady.  Mrs.  Cawder  had 
Country  Life;  Sue  felt  that  it  must  be  very  good  be- 
cause it  was  so  thick.  Apparently  there  were  still 
altitudes  to  climb,  but  she  was  getting  on.  It  was  a 
little  bleak  though,  up  there. 

Never  before  had  Roger  been  to  a  place  such  as 
Broadstairs.  Most  of  his  holidays,  as  a  boy,  had  been 
spent  at  St.  Olaves,  digging  for  rabbits  and  fishing  for 
dace  in  the  Char.  Later  he  had  gone  on  walking  tours 
with  other  Gabriel  men  in  Switzerland  and  Belgium. 
His  inclination  now  lay  towards  the  more  arty 
places,  Pulborough  and  Winchelsea,  or  Cornwall  (where 
the  modern  novel  comes  from).  But  somehow  he  did 
not  want  to  hide  with  Sue  in  a  deserted  country.  An 
obscure  instinct  in  him  told  him  not  to  stress  the  con- 
trast between  their  habits  until  that  contrast  was  less. 
Of  course  he  did  not  tell  himself  that,  for  it  was  the 
truth.  He  told  himself  that  Settlement  work  would 
require  him  from  time  to  time  in  London.  Also  The- 
resa had  settled  at  Grove  Ferry,  giving  as  reasons  that 
she  had  never  heard  of  anybody  going  there,  which 
meant  that  it  would  be  restful ;  also  she  liked  the  sugges- 
tion of  the  grove  and  the  ferry.  Roger  reflected  that 
Broadstairs  was  not  far  from  Grove  Ferry,  so  he  could 
—  well,  one  wanted  —  and,  damn  it  all,  why  shouldn't 
he  be  near  Theresa  ? 

They  were  not  uncomfortable  at  the  hotel;  it  was 
rather  a  quiet  little  hotel,  and  the  guests  were  not  as 
repulsive  as  they  might  have  been.  It  was  mainly  a 
military  and  golfy  sort  of  society,  with  a  hint  of  ad- 
venture and  irregularity,  as  represented  by  Miss 
Grange.  A  rather  rosy  young  novelist  with  a  short 
moustache,  who  had  drifted  through  the  hotel,  com- 
mented upon  the  openings  of  Miss  Grange's  blouses  and 


392     THE  STRANGERS*  WEDDING 

christened  them  "  world  without  end  ",  adding  that  if 
he  were  in  Trouville  instead  of  Broadstairs  he  would 
try  to  say  Amen.  There  was  Captain  Saltaire  too,  who 
expressed  powerful  emotions  Ly  means  of  monosyllables ; 
It  was  a  way  they  had  in  the  Buffs.  Sue  was  not 
unhappy  in  this  society ;  it  was  well-bred,  so  its  members 
gazed  at  each  other  with  an  air  of  contempt  and  hatred. 
They  did  not  thrust  themselves  upon  each  other.  She 
exchanged  a  few  words  with  some  of  the  women  while 
they  washed.  It  had  not  been  a  success,  for  she  puzzled 
them;  they  were  suspicious,  and  they  looked  at  her  as 
if  through  a  lorgnette.  She  got  on  best  with  Miss 
Grange,  because  Miss  Grange  was  so  pretty  and  seemed 
so  lonely,  and  had  a  fat  old  uncle  staying  with  her  who 
never  would  leave  her.  Sue  felt  sorry  for  her,  for 
people  were  not  at  all  nice  to  poor  Miss  Grange  and 
her  uncle,  except  Captain  Saltaire.  No,  she  reflected, 
they  were  all  rather  cats  except  dear  old  Mrs.  Cawder 
with  whom  she  sat.  She  was  often  with  her,  for  Mr. 
Cawder  was  a  great  golfer  and  passed,  it  seemed,  all 
his  time  from  dawn  to  sunset  on  the  links.  He  took 
Roger  with  him  too.  She  did  not  like  that  but  supposed 
it  was  good  for  him.  And  so  she  sat  in  silent  com- 
panionship with  the  old  lady,  painfully  counting 
threads,  afraid  lest  she  should  cut  the  wrong  one,  now 
and  then  snatching  a  glance  at  the  few  swimmers  who 
from  time  to  time  came  out  of  the  hotel  in  bath  robes. 
It  was  not  thronged,  but  it  was  amiable,  refinedly  ami- 
able, screamless.  The  little  boys  made  sand  castles 
silently  and  efficiently,  just  as  they  would  build  bridges 
by  and  by  in  India.  And  the  little  girls  sat  with  their 
nurses,  reading  L.  T.  Meade  and  Grace  Aguilar.  It 
was  pleasant,  it  was  morning,  and  soft  brightness  fell 
from  the  air. 

Miss  Grange  and  her  uncle  came  out  of  the  hotel. 
He  did  look  large  in  that  bath  gown,  and  why  did 
he  cord  it  so  low  as  to  make  himself  look  larger  ?  And 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  393 

she  so  pretty,  like  a  little  girl  who  somehow  was  big. 
Miss  Grange  threw  off  her  bath  robe  at  the  edge  of  the 
water,  and  Sue  felt  a  pang  of  envy.  Oh,  the  pretty 
bathing  dress !  Pink  silk !  It  was  a  little  discomfort- 
ing to  Sue  for,  well,  pink  —  one  didn't  look  very  much 
dressed.  But  Miss  Grange  wore  pink  silk  stockings 
and  bathing  shoes  with  tango  lacings.  Sue  remem- 
bered that  when  bathing  the  day  before  she  had  actually 
gone  in  without  stockings.  In  the  water  were  two  other 
women  also  in  stockings.  Her  heart  grew  heavy: 
yes,  she  had  done  it  again.  She  wondered,  however, 
whether  even  if  everybody  did  wear  stockings  when  they 
bathed  she  should  do  so  too ;  she  now  had  enough  social 
usage  to  know  that  a  thing  was  not  necessarily  right 
when  everybody  did  it.  Dared  she  ask?  She  looked 
at  Mrs.  Cawder  sideways ;  the  old  lady  smiled. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

Sue  felt  she  wanted  to  kiss  her. 

"  I  was  thinking,  Mrs.  .  .  ."  She  caught  herself  up 
in  time.  "  I  don'  wear  stockings  when  I  bathe ;  they 
feel  so  sticky  when  you're  wet." 

"Well?" 

"  D'you  think  I  ought  to  wear  stockings  ?  " 

Mrs.  Cawder  looked  at  her  affectionately. 

"  My  dear,  it's  just  as  you  like."  The  old  lady  won- 
dered for  a  moment  how  it  was  that  Sue  should  ask  her 
this.  There  was  something  funny  about  the  girl. 
Sweet,  of  course ;  much  more  than  pretty.  But  —  what 
was  it?  Was  it  Tooting  or  what?  She  had  not  the 
heart  to  leave  her  perplexed.  "  If  you  want  my  honest 
opinion,"  she  said,  "  I  prefer  stockings.  But  I'm  quite 
Victorian,  my  dear;  I'm  almost  Georgian.  I  just  tell 
you  because  you  ask  me." 

"  Thank  you  so  much,"  said  Sue  emotionally.  She 
wished  Mrs.  Cawder  would  adopt  her  and  tell  her  things 
in  that  nice  insinuating  way.  But  still,  the  fact  re- 
mained that  she  had  bathed  without  stockings.  They 


394     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

wore  stockings  on  Olympus,  and  there  she  went  stock- 
ingless.  And  heaven  only  knew  what  else  wrong  she 
had  done  or  was  doing.  She  remembered  her  mother's 
frequent  remark  and  almost  made  it  aloud :  "  It's  a 
weary  world." 

Captain  Saltaire,  who  had  been  watching  Miss 
Grange  as  she  carefully  entered  the  water  and  stopped 
as  it  reached  her  knees  to  turn  and  smile  at  the  numer- 
ous men  who  were  pretending  not  to  see  her,  grew 
conscious  of  the  bulky  uncle ;  he  seemed  rather  specially 
to  disapprove  of  him.  Languid  he  came  towards  them. 

"  Mornin',"  he  said,  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  some- 
thing else. 

Mrs.  Cawder  asked  him  how  he  had  done  in  the  tennis 
tournament  the  day  before. 

"  Went  down  in  the  first  round.  Don't  mind.  Too 
hot  for  tennis." 

Mrs.  Cawder  smiled. 

"  You  are  slack,  you  young  men,  nowadays.  Why 
don't  you  start  a  cup  and  ball  competition  \  " 

"  Not  half  bad  idea.  I  could  do  with  a  cup  if  there 
was  somethin'  in  it." 

The  soldier's  distrait  eyes  rested  upon  Sue.  She  was 
a  damned  fine  girl,  he  thought,  and  married  too.  Well, 
that  wasn't  against  her;  they  were  easier  when  they 
were  married.  Must  say  something  to  her.  He  looked 
at  Mrs.  Cawder  eloquently,  and  the  old  lady,  sensitive 
to  his  interest,  introduced  them.  He  bent  down  to  look 
at  the  drawn-thread  work  and  at  the  strong  brown 
hands. 

"  Can't  make  out  how  you  do  it,"  he  murmured ; 
"  used  to  know  a  chap  who  went  in  for  tapestry.  He 
was  a  sapper,"  he  added  hurriedly.  "  They're  all  a 
bit  cracked,  you  know.  Still,  wish  I  was  up  to  it ;  gives 
a  fellow  something  to  think  about." 

Sue  looked  up  at  him ;  she  was  blushing  a  little.  She 
felt  impelled  to  offer  to  teach  him.  She  nearly  did, 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  395 

for  Mrs.  Cawder  was  there;  alone  she  would  not  have 
dared.  She  said : 

"  You  just  draw  as  many  threads  as  you  want  and 
then  you  work  the  pattern  with  a  needle  and  cotton." 

"  Yes,"  said  Captain  Saltaire,  meaning  "  No  ",  un- 
stirred save  by  the  dark  flush  on  her  cheeks.  "  Fright- 
fully interestin'.  What's  it  for  ?  Antimacassar  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sue.  "  Mrs.  Cawder  says  we 
can  send  it  to  the  rector's  sale  of  work  when  it's  done, 
but  I  don't  think  it'll  fetch  much."  She  grew  thought- 
ful. "  I  wonder  how  much  those  things  are  worth  ? 
One  might  make  quite  a  good  living  at  it."  She  looked 
at  Mrs.  Cawder  enviously.  "  If  one  worked  as  fast  as 
you,  why,  one  might  make  quite  a  pound  a  week  at  it." 

"  Keep  you  in  cigarettes,"  said  Saltaire,  smiling. 

Sue  did  not  hear ;  she  went  on  talking  rather  more  to 
herself  than  to  her  companions,  wondering  whether 
drawn-thread  sold  better  than  crochet,  comparing  the 
price  of  lace  in  Eegent  Street  and  in  Westbourne  Grove. 
Captain  Saltaire  looked  bored.  Also  Miss  Grange 
came  out  of  the  water  and  began  to  dry  in  the  sun  the 
perfect  silk  stockings  with  the  tango  lacings.  He 
strolled  away  after  a  while,  and  there  was  a  very  long 
silence,  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Sue  felt  she  had 
done  something,  said  something.  She  was  not  really 
getting  on,  she  felt.  She  had  got  on  with  certain  peo- 
ple, but  she  was  not  getting  on  with  all  of  them.  At  last 
she  had  to  ask  Mrs.  Cawder. 

"  I  don't  quite  see  what  you  mean,  my  dear,"  said  the 
old  lady.  "  Of  course  he  was  not  offended." 

"  I  thought  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  you  couldn't  expect  him  to  be  interested  in 
what  those  things  cost,  could  you  ?  " 

"  No."  Sue  detected  a  coldness.  "  Mrs.  Cawder," 
she  whispered,  and  remembered  that  people  did  not  dis- 
cuss these  things  and  wondered  why,  "  tell  me,  p'raps  I 
oughtn't  to  have  talked  about  what  those  things  cost  ? " 


396     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

The  old  lady  looked  at  her  for  a  while  unsmiling: 
what  should  she  say  to  this  charming  child  who  seemed 
so  uneducated  and  made  such  an  incomprehensible  com- 
bination with  that  nice  husband  of  hers  ? .  Of  course, 
she  did  rather  impossible  things,  but  could  she  tell  her  ? 
She  ought  to,  but  ...  So  she  gathered  up  her  knit- 
ting and  said :  "  My  dear,  one  of  these  days,  when  you 
feel  inclined,  tell  me  a  little  about  yourself.  Not  now, 
I'm  going  now, —  only  if  you  feel  inclined.  Life's 
rather  difficult;  we  must  make  of  it  what  we  can. 
That's  more  difficult  even  than  drawn-thread  work." 

When  Sue  was  alone  she  felt  that  she  could  cry.  Ex- 
posed somehow,  doing  wrong,  young  and  not  being  told, 
and  Roger  away  all  day  playing  golf,  so  he  didn't  care ; 
nobody  else  told  her,  nobody  else  cared.  A  boy  with  a 
tray  of  sweets  passed;  she  bought  some  chocolates  and 
covertly  ate  them,  not  at  all  sure  that  she  might  do  that 
on  the  beach,  though  she  had  an  idea  that  eating  on  the 
beach  was  not  the  same  thing  as  eating  in  the  street. 
Still,  the  chocolates  were  full  of  cream,  and  soon  she 
felt  a  little  better. 


II 

"  IVe  asked  Theresa  to  lunch,"  said  Roger,  "  she's 
coming  to-morrow." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Sue.  "  Is  she  coming  down  from  Lon- 
don?" 

"  No,"  said  Roger,  "  she's  at  Grove  Ferry." 

"  Where's  Grove  Ferry  ?  " 

"  Quite  near  here,  about  half  an  hour  in  the  train." 

"  Oh!  "  said  Sue  thoughtfully.  "  Half  an  hour  in 
the  train.  How  long  has  she  been  there  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  some  time." 

"  Has  she  been  there  ever  since  we  came  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.     Yes,  she  has." 

Sue  thought  for  a  little  while. 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  397 

"  Funny  she  didn't  tell  me.  I  saw  her  just  before  we 
left.  Told  you,  didn't  she  ? " 

Roger  stared:  "  Told  me?  Of  course  she  told  me 
but  —  what : —  what  the  devil  d'you  mean  by  this  ?  " 
He  hated  himself;  this  was  the  second  time  he  had 
sworn  at  a  woman,  and  the  Huncotes  did  not  do  that. 
At  least  that  was  their  tradition:  they  did  swear  at 
them,  and  occasionally  they  beat  them,  as  they  occasion- 
ally drank  too  much  port.  But  family  pride  had  erased 
these  facts  from  the  family  records. 

Sue  nearly  replied :  "  What  I  say,"  but  this  had 
caused  trouble  before,  and  she  was  not  angry  yet;  she 
was  only  piqued.  "  I  didn't  mean  anything,  Eoger, 
only  it  seems  funny  she  should  tell  you  and  not  me." 

"  Now  look  here,  if  you're  jealous,  if  we're  going  to 
have  a  scene,  let's  have  it  at  once." 

"  It's  you  who  are  making  a  scene,"  said  Sue. 

"  I'm  not  making  a  scene,"  Roger  shouted.  He  won- 
dered what  was  coming  over  him ;  in  these  days  he  could 
not  control  his  temper.  "  Only  when  I  find  you  ques- 
tioning me  and  hinting  at  heaven  knows  what,  just  be- 
cause Theresa's  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  like  to  go  and 
see  her  and  talk  to  her  now  and  then  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  ?  "  Sue  interrupted.  Then  very  slowly :  "  So 
you've  been  to  see  her,  Roger,  on  the  q.t.  ?  " 

She  wished  she  had  not  said  that, —  Ada  Nuttall's 
fault.  Her  husband  looked  at  her  with  a  hard  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I've  been  to  see  her,  and  what  if  I 
have?" 

"  You  might  have  told  me." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  It  doesn't  look  nice  for  a  married  man  to  go  run- 
ning after  a  single  lady." 

"  Don't  say  '  single  lady.'     I've  already  told  you." 

"  Well,  after  a  girl  then." 

"  I'm  not  running  after  her." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  " 


398     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Oh !  "  Koger  burst  out,  "  how  do  I  know  ?  Don't 
you  understand  that  one  sometimes  wants  to  have  a  little 
private  life  with  one's  personal  friends  ?  Things  one 
doesn't  talk  about  to  everybody  ?  " 

"  When  a  man's  married  .  .  ."  Sue  began. 

He  interrupted  and  swore  again:  yes,  that  was  it. 
Sue  would  never  understand.  Marriage:  rabbits  in  a 
hutch,  all  that.  And  beastly  suspicious  if  one  tried  to 
escape  for  five  minutes.  He  told  her  that,  and  Sue,  who 
until  then  had  been  calm,  grew  angry.  For  long  min- 
utes, face  to  face  with  clenched  hands,  they  showered 
upon  each  other  short,  angry  little  taunts.  He  was 
running  after  Theresa.  Yes,  he  was. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  understand  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  I  know  that  much." 

"You  think  people  can't  know  each  other  without 
there  being  something  wrong  in  it." 

"  A  fat  lot  you  know  about  what  I  think." 

"  But  why  don't  you  tell  me  instead  of  sulking  ?  " 

"Call  me  sulky?     Me?" 

They  hated  each  other,  they  hated  themselves.  She 
felt  unjust  because  she  trusted  him  and  yet  could  not 
cease  abusing  him.  And  he  hated  himself  because  his 
conduct  was  guiltless  and  he  felt,  as  he  hated  this 
woman  and  remembered  the  other,  a  growth  of  guilty 
desire.  According  to  their  moral  standards  both  were 
pure,  and  so  they  hated  each  other  and  themselves,  be- 
cause their  quarrel  was  driving  them  towards  what  they 
thought  impure.  They  had  no  knowledge  of  the  world, 
no  cynicism;  they  were  paying  the  penalty  of  having 
been  chaste  in  thought  and  deed ;  they  were  suffering  be- 
cause they  thought  too  highly  of  a  faithfulness  which 
each  was  driving  the  other  to  abandon. 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  399 

III 

Roger  Huncote  thought  of  a  phrase  of  Pierre  Veber : 
"  Tout  s' arrange."  It  did,  in  a  way,  arrange  itself. 
Xo  doubt  the  harem  favourite  in  the  sack  arranges 
herself  more  or  less  with  the  cat  and  the  snake  in  the 
Bosphorus  when  all  three  begin  to  drown. 

Sue  was  very  unhappy.  She  was  viewing  her  hus- 
band more  impersonally  than  she  had  ever  viewed  any 
human  being.  This  man  with  whom  she  had  thought 
to  achieve  perfect  unity  was  a  stranger.  If  she  had 
known  the  world  she  would  have  called  him  a  prig; 
as  it  was,  she  only  reflected  that  he  did  not  talk  to  her 
as  to  other  people.  He  was  dull  and,  not  knowing  that 
she  irritated  him,  she  thought  him  bad  tempered.  He 
was  not  correcting  her  much  now ;  that  pleased  her,  for 
it  made  life  more  comfortable,  and  it  did  not  strike  her 
that  he  cared  less.  But  they  were  civilised  people;  he 
very  much  so,  she  more  or  less ;  they  preserved  the  outer 
graces  of  conversation,  and  at  meals  new  arrivals 
thought  they  looked  a  charming  young1  couple.  They 
even  mixed  more  intimately.  One  evening,  while 
Roger  was  dressing,  Sue  came  into  his  bedroom  and 
wandered  about,  looking  at  the  water  colours  upon  the 
wall  and  at  his  studs.  She  observed  him  brushing  his 
teeth.  That  made  her  talk. 

"  You  oughtn't  to  use  so  much  tooth  powder,  Roger," 
she  said.  "  They  say  it  rubs  the  enamel  off.  Not  that 
you  don't  want  it  now  and  then,  smoking  such  a  lot  as 
you  do.  There's  a  special  sort  for  smokers,  isn't  there  ? 
Smoker's  tooth  powder,  they  call  it.  I'm  glad  I  don't 
smoke,  makes  one's  teeth  go  so  yellow,  don't  you  think  ? 
Still  one  has  to  use  some  tooth  powder  sometimes. 
Those  mouth  washes  they  advertise  in  the  papers,  they 
don't  do  as  well,  do  they?  I  don't  believe  that  Zena 
Dare  only  uses  what  the  advertisements  say  she  does. 
She's  got  such  a  pretty  smile,  don't  you  think  ? " 


400     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

She  paused  as  lie  did  not  reply  and  then  went  on 
nervously  as  if  she  could  not  stop: 

"  There's  paste  too,  stuff  you,  rub  the  brush  on.  I 
always  think  it's  too  soapy,  don't  you?  Frothing  up 
in  your  mouth  like  anything.  Of  course  that's  best  if 
you've  got  a  hard  brush,  makes  it  softer.  I  don't  like 
a  hard  brush,  do  you  ?  Hurts  one  if  one  isn't  careful. 
I  always  think  you've  got  to  stand  it  in  the  glass  for  the 
water  to  soften  it  a  bit.  Only  one  mustn't  forget  to 
dry  it,  must  one  ?  They  say  it  gets  musty  if  you  don't, 
and  all  the  bristles  fall  out  ..." 

He  did  not  reply.  He  went  on  brushing  his  hair; 
perhaps  he  was  not  listening.  She  was  talking  more 
than  she  used  now  that  she  was  surer  of  herself.  And 
what  a  topic !  But,  as  if  she  did  not  notice,  she  went 
on  from  tooth  brushes  in  general  to  tooth  brushes  with 
close  bristles,  and  distant  bristles,  to  long  bristles  and 
short  bristles,  and  then  back  again  to  mouth  washes,  to 
a  spirited  comparison  between  Odol  and  Sozodont.  He 
had  finished  brushing  his  hair  now  and  was  putting  on 
his  collar. 

The  early  violence  of  his  desire  for  her  had  gone. 
Their  young  passion  had  turned  into  a  convention.  On 
the  night  when  Sue  recited  "  The  Wreck  of  the  Rasp- 
berry Jam  "  it  had  turned  into  a  mere  protest.  He  had 
never  been  her  companion,  he  was  not  even  her  mate. 
He  seemed  always  to  be  thinking  of  something  and  never 
about  her.  She  realised  that  and  thought :  "  I'm  all 
alone."  The  world  seemed  so  large  to  her  who  had  been 
born  in  a  little  corner  of  it.  The  world  had  seemed  so 
gorgeous  and  so  impersonal  from  afar,  a  sort  of  Albert 
Hall  where,  of  course,  you  would  not  go  alone  but  al- 
ways with  somebody  you  loved  very  much  in  the  next 
seat.  Now  the  seat  was  empty  and  she  sat  alone  in  the 
Albert  Hall  of  life.  She  felt  cold  and  frightened;  she 
exaggerated  her  own  importance.  She  thought  that 
everybody  stared  at  the  vacant  seat  next  to  her  and 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  401 

wondered  why  nobody  sat  in  it.  She  was  very  lonely. 
She  used  to  go  up-stairs  and  down-stairs,  pretending  to 
fetch  something,  just  to  have  something  to  do,  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  front  all  alone,  envying  the  couples. 
She  too  had  been  in.  Arcadia  long  ago,  and  she  did  not 
know  why  she  had  been  turned  out.  Or  had  she  really 
been  in  Arcadia  ?  "  It's  like  a  dream,"  she  thought. 

It  had  indeed  been  a  dream  come  to  her  in  the  sleep 
of  life.  And  now,  dreamless,  she  slept.  She  went  for 
little  walks.  She  went  to  the  railway  station  to  see  the 
trains  come  in.  It  was  funny  on  the  bridge,  for  she  re- 
membered the  little  boys  who  used  to  hang  over  a 
bridge  like  that  in  St.  Panwich  and  try  to  spit  upon  the 
engine  driver  as  the  trains  went  by.  She  liked  the 
station.  Everybody  seemed  so  excited  at  meeting 
everybody  or  sorry  to  see  them  go.  For  Sue  was  a  true 
woman  and  understood  only  the  emotions :  pain  of  part- 
ing, joy  of  meeting,  love  fulfilled,  envy  of  clothes,  fear 
of  pain,  all  those  things  she  understood,  and  some  of 
them  were  in  the  railway  station,  that  gate  at  which  so 
many  delights  enter  and  so  many  die. 

She  had  not  after  all  told  Mrs.  Cawder  about  herself. 
She  had  thought  of  telling  her  a  romantic  story,  of  how 
she  was  the  daughter  of  "  an  ancient  house  of  high  lin- 
eage "  who  had  been  kidnapped  in  infancy  by  gipsies. 
Then  one  day  she  was  recognised  owing  to  a  coronated 
handkerchief  when  she  was  singing  ...  in  the  snow, 
of  course,  in  the  snow.  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  she  could 
be  a  Mystery,  something  foreign  and  rather  royal,  who 
was  just  pretending  to  be,  what  did  they  call  it?  yes, 
incorknito,  just  for  a  quiet  life.  Or  she  might  tell  her 
the  truth,  washtub  and  all.  But  when  it  came  to  it  she 
could  not.  Sue  tried  to  talk  to  Miss  Grange  too,  but 
was  horrified  because  Miss  Grange  responded  and  told 
her  three  stories,  one  of  which  she  could  not  even  under- 
stand. The  other  two  made  her  shudder,  especially  as 
the  sweet  little  mouth  of  the  sweet  little  girl,  who  hap- 


402     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

pened  to  be  big,  expressed  at  the  end  views  on  men  which 
she  decorated  with  every  adjective  Sue  had  heard  in  the 
mouths  of  the  draymen  in  St.  Panwich  High  Street. 
It  was  horrible ;  like  a  lily  growing  in  a  cesspool.  And 
to  make  it  worse  Miss  Grange's  uncle  arrived  and,  when 
Miss  Grange  was  not  looking,  took  Sue  by  the  arm  and 
winked  at  her.  It  made  her  sick,  for  his  eyelid  was  so 
fat  that  when  he  winked  it  looked  like  a  pink  sausage 
moving.  , 

She  found  herself  getting  friendly  with  Lizzie,  the 
chambermaid.  She  took  to  going  up  to  her  bedroom 
after  breakfast  and  talking  to  Lizzie  while  she  did  the 
room.  Lizzie  was  small  and  very  fair  and  thought  Sue 
lovely.  She  told  her,  and  Sue  liked  that.  Also  she 
hinted  she'd  seen  a  deal  of  trouble  and  had  a  young  man, 
'Enry,  a  stoker  in  the  P.  &  O.,  whose  photograph  she 
showed  Sue  on  the  third  morning.  Lizzie  liked  Sue, 
and  she  got  into  trouble  now  and  then  for  wasting  time, 
for  she  liked  to  talk  to  Sue,  vaguely  feeling  that  she 
need  not  call  her  M'am  too  often,  and  discussing  whether 
she'd  be  well-advised  to  buy  that  second-hand  coal  scuttle 
they  had  in  a  shop  at  Margate.  Lizzie  was  getting  the 
little  home  together  while  the  mysterious  'Enry  stoked 
on  the  China  seas.  It  was  very  grateful  to  Sue,  this 
plunge  into  something  she  could  understand:  Lizzie  in 
heaven  by  and  by,  in  one  room  near  Tilbury  Docks, 
managing  nicely  on  fifteen  bob  a  week,  counting  what 
she  earned,  and  'Enry  coming  back  very  much  in  love 
every  few  months.  But  suddenly  she  realised  it  would 
not  do.  She  was  sliding  back.  This  intimacy  was 
pulling  her  down.  She  was  a  lady  now,  and  she  could 
not  do  the  nice  things  people  did  who  weren't  ladies. 
So,  the  next  morning,  Lizzie  fussed  and  waited  in  vain 
in  the  bedroom,  for  Sue  did  not  come  up.  She  had  re- 
proached herself  for  this  backsliding;  her  poor  little 
edifice  of  importance  and  self-satisfaction  was  collaps- 
ing like  a  bit  of  sugar  in  a  cup  of  tea. 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  403 

IV 

That  morning  was  Bank  Holiday.  Sue  stood  out- 
side the  hotel  a  little  excited  because  it  was  Bank  Holi- 
day. There  was  Bank  Holiday  in  the  air.  It  awoke 
old  feelings,  raised  old  Bank  Holidays  that  had  come 
like  saturnalia,  then  gone  to  glamour.  There  was  agi- 
tation even  in  Broadstairs  and  down  the  sunny  little 
street  that  curls  away  towards  the  front ;  she  thought  she 
could  hear  upon  the  refined  beach  music  less  refined.  A 
couple  passed  by,  from  London  obviously ;  the  lady  was 
carrying  the  gentleman's  stick.  They  were  laughing; 
they  were  passing  her  by,  and  she  felt  envious  and  left. 
They  were  nearing  the  corner.  She  heard  him  say: 
"  Have  a  banana  ?  "  And  then  they  were  round  the  cor- 
ner, and  she  was  left  upon  the  steps  of  the  hotel  in  a 
pique  frock,  with  a  champagne-coloured  sweater,  refined 
and  alone. 

A  few  yards  away  a  motorbus,  marked  Ramsgate,  was 
rumbling  eagerly,  as  if  it  wanted  to  be  off.  It  was  not 
very  full  yet,  for  Broadstairs  probably  intended  to  be 
orgiastic  in  its  own  discreet  way.  The  conductor  was 
anxious  to  fill  up,  and  Sue  upon  the  steps  all  alone 
inspired  him :  "  Come  on !  Come  on,  lidy !  All  for 
Ramsgit!  Come  on,  lidy!  Run  you  down  t'  the 
briny  in  arf  an  hour." 

Sue  smiled ;  the  conductor  smiled  back :  "  Come  on, 
lidy,  yer  don't  want  t'  miss  Bank  'Oliday.  Ah!  I 
can  see  yer  want  t'go,  lidy.  That's  right!  'Ave  a 
little  bit  o'  wot  yer  fancy;  I  think  it  does  yer 
good." 

Sue  was  aware  of  tumultuous  emotions.  She  had 
Bank  Holidayed  before  now,  generally  at  Southend. 
He  was  a  thrilling  conductor,  and  half  the  busload  was 
laughing  at  him  and  at  her,  not  unkindly.  Bank  Hol- 
iday! Pierrots!  Cocoanuts!  The  slumbrous  past! 
Why  not?  Roger  was  playing  golf,  and  even  if  he 


404     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

wasn't,  she  thought,  he  wouldn't  miss  her.  She  did  not 
pause,  she  leapt  into  the  bus  and,  as  if  spider-like  the 
bus  had  waited  only  for  her,  it  quivered  with  excite- 
ment and  with  a  roaring  rasp  bore  her  off,  thrilled  and 
terrified,  as  Proserpina  in  the  embrace  of  Pluto.  They 
were  not  quite  bank-holidayish  in  the  bus ;  some  came 
from  Margate  and  implied  that  they  came  from  Clifton- 
ville;  a  few  were  from  Broadstairs.  Nobody  ate  any- 
thing, and  she  heard  a  large  red  woman  say  that  she 
wanted  to  see  what  Bank  Holiday  was  like.  That  was 
why  she  was  going  to  Ramsgate.  But  in  any  case  she 
would  not  much  have  noticed  her  companions  then. 
She  was  an  escaped  school-girl  out  of  bounds,  and  the 
flat  fields  of  Thanet,  accursed  tram-soiled  isle,  fields  of 
mangy  grass  and  dirty  earth,  seemed  an  Eden. 

She  was  in  Eamsgate.  She  was  afraid.  There  was 
heat  and  dust,  and  music  in  the  air.  For  a  moment  she 
stopped  where  the  bus  had  put  her  down,  looking  at  the 
old  Victorian  houses  with  their  narrow  verandahs  of 
wrought  iron,  at  "  Chatsworth ",  at  "  Greville  Tow- 
ers" (otherwise  known  as  Number  42),  all  of  them 
board-residences  or  apartments,  all  more  or  less  To  Let, 
each  one  with  its  drawing-room,  each  one  with  its  aspi- 
distra in  a  pot,  one  aspidistra  in  a  green  pot  with  a 
pink  sash,  one  aspidistra  in  a  yellow  pot  with  a  blue 
sash  .  .  . 

She  was  afraid,  afraid  of  the  mob.  The  mob  came 
marching  down  continuously  from  the  railway  station, 
meeting  other  mobs  from  the  station  near  the  sands,  the 
mobs  from  the  tramways,  the  mobs  from  the  busses  and 
the  charabancs,  the  little  mobs  that  trickled  from  the 
apartments  houses.  She  was  shouldered,  she  was  jos- 
tled and,  oh  delirium,  she  was  winked  at.  But  already 
she  was  afraid  of  being  seen,  all  alone  like  that.  It  felt 
frightfully  lonely  in  the  Bank  Holiday  crowd,  that  hec- 
tic London  crowd,  its  men  with  the  earthy  faces,  its 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  405 

tired  girls,  its  rouged  girls,  its  rowdy  boys  with  wood- 
bines stuck  to  their  under-lip,  its  fat  black  Jewish  flap- 
pers from  Mile  End.  She  was  afraid  and  also  she  was 
hungry.  Oh,  why  had  she  been  so  quick  ?  Why  hadn't 
she  even  brought  sandwiches  which  she  could  eat  in  a 
quiet  place  ?  She  laughed  at  herself.  "  A  quiet  place 
in  Eamsgate !  "  She  thought :  "  Can't  stand  here  all 
day,"  and  it  struck  her  that  to  eat  would  help  her  to 
hide.  She  went  into  an  Italian  restaurant  under  the 
arches,  a  steaming  little  place  where  the  perspiration  of 
waiters,  the  persistent  smell  of  steak  and  onions,  and  the 
aroma  of  gold  flake  assailed  her,  reminiscent  and, 
therefore,  delicious.  She  sat  down  at  a  little  table  with 
two  stranger  girls;  she  did  not  know  how  happy  she 
was:  here  was  neither  caviare  nor  white  paint.  She 
would  like  to  have  talked  to  the  girls  who,  looking  at 
her  suspiciously  as  if  they  thought  she  was  not  quite  one 
of  them,  carried  on  a  continual  and  exciting  conversa- 
tion about  somebody  they  called  "  they."  She  caught 
snatches  of  it  now  and  then. 

"  They  wouldn't  let  me  go,  and  what  could  I  do  ? 
And  there  I  was,  and  the  last  train  gorn,  so  I  said  to 
'em,  it's  all  very  well,  I  said,  I'll  be  locked  out,  I 
said  .  .  ." 

Sue  struggled  with  a  very  tough  leg  of  cold  fowl  and 
listened  hard.  But  there  was  too  much  noise.  The 
three  waiters  filled  the  room  with  shrill,  musical  Italian, 
corks  popped,  forks  clattered  on  plates,  and  a  family 
party  next  to  her  alternately  smacked  and  soothed  its 
children.  And  a  young  couple  distracted  her.  He  was 
doing  her  proud  with  a  bottle  of  ginger  ale  done  up  in 
tin  foil  "  just  like  champagne  wine."  But  they  ate  and 
drank  only  at  intervals.  The  two  sat  unashamedly 
hand  in  hand,  shoulder  against  shoulder.  Sue  thought 
of  a  snatch :  "  Joshua,  Joshua !  Sweeter  than  straw- 
berries and  cream,  you  are."  She  sighed,  for  it  hurt 
her  a  little,  and  she  ate  quickly  as  if  she  wanted  to  get 


406     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

away,  out  in  the  open  where  she  could  be  more  person- 
ally alone.  The  girls  were  still  whispering. 

"  Oo,  rather.     'E's  a  gentleman." 

"No!" 

"  Tell  you  'e  is.  'E's  a  medical  student,  'e  is.  Den- 
tal." 

She  went  out  again,  fed  and  unsatisfied.  She  felt 
just  a  little  stuck  up,  for  this  was  the  first  time  she  had 
lunched  alone  at  a  restaurant :  Bank  Holiday.  She  had 
lunched  late,  and  those  who  had  not  left  the  boarding 
houses  clustered  in  their  front  gardens.  There  were 
large  groups  of  young  men  with  faces  inflamed  by  the 
sun,  all  grades  from  pink  to  purple,  bearing  all  kinds  of 
blisters  from  mere  fray  to  vaccination  patch:  they  had 
not  long  been  by  the  sea.  The  Jewish  boarding  houses 
with  the  mysterious  lettering  drew  her  perhaps  more 
than  any,  for  there  the  families,  dark,  fat,  extensively 
dressed,  reposed  in  each  other's  abundant  bosoms,  some- 
what sleepy  after  food,  conscious  of  its  cost,  grand- 
mother, grandfather,  hoyden,  and  little  child,  uncle  and 
every  aunt  they  had  ever  had  .  .  . 

It  was  half-past  two ;  Ramsgate  was  at  the  full  of  its 
holiday.  She  went  out  upon  the  front  where  a  military 
band  was  playing  musical  comedy  successes  to  thousands 
and  thousands  of  chairs,  each  one  tenanted,  some  of 
them  tenanted  by  two,  and  round  them  the  vast  mobs 
that  looked  black  and  white  as  the  light  dresses  of  the 
girls  mixed  with  the  men's  dark  city  suits.  White 
straw  hats  with  'varsity  ribbons,  regimental  colours 
combined  with  silk  hats.  She  could  hardly  move.  At 
every  step  she  butted  into  young  men  that  begged  par- 
don, or  into  girls  who  sniffed  at  her  sweater.  She  felt 
conscious  of  her  champagne  sweater  among  all  those 
others,  mostly  sky  blue  or  pink.  A  heat  and  a  dust  rose 
about  her  towards  the  sky  that  was  as  a  blue  pearl. 
Everywhere  round  her  was  laughing  and  canoodling 
ancj.  spopning.  Yes,  indeed,  for  fhere  was  a  swirl  in. 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  407 

the  crowd  and  towards  her,  clearing  all  before  them 
came  six  boys,  with  six  fags  in  their  six  mouths,  who  as 
they  smoked  swaggered  and  sang: 

"If  the  man  in  the  moon 

Were  a  coon, 
Would  you  spoon 
With  the  man  in  the  moon  ?  .  .  ." 

She  could  not  help  laughing;  they  were  all  laughing 
as  the  boys  passed.  Voices  blended  into  a  solid  hum. 
The  band  streaked  it;  "Tara!  Tara!  Tantara!" 
screamed  its  trumpets.  And  the  voice  of  an  ice- 
cream vender :  "  Hoy !  Hoy !  Hokey-pokey !  Penny  a 
lump !  "  All  were  gay,  even  the  Jewish  flappers  who, 
dressed  up,  went  in  pairs  telling  each  other  about  their 
rich  relations  in  Hampstead.  It  was  all  so  violent  and 
alive  that  somehow  she  no  longer  felt  alone.  She  looked 
at  her  neighbours,  smiled  at  them  and  they  at  her. 
But  at  once  she  grew  afraid  of  being  seen.  No,  she 
must  not  stay  here.  She  thought  of  the  sands. 

There  they  lay,  just  under  the  front,  the  illimitable 
yellow  sands,  so  vast,  so  flat,  that  the  thousands  of 
striped  chairs  dotted  everywhere  made  but  small  marks. 
There  lay  the  sands,  and  there  was  no  sea,  for  the  end- 
less line  of  bathing  machines  obscured  it,  the  bathing 
machines,  each  one  with  its  little  knot  of  two  or  three 
waiting  their  turn,  and  its  smart  rowdy  keeping  an 
open  eye  for  scanty  costumes.  Only  on  one  or  two 
places,  in  gaps  between  the  machines,  could  she  see  the 
sea.  It  was  full,  full.  There  was  no  water  near  the 
edge  but  only  a  bobbing  mass  of  red  and  blue  bathing 
dresses,  masses  of  children  that  screamed  and  plunged 
among  the  adults  who  never  got  wet  above  their  waists. 
From  the  sands  towards  her  rose  the  vast  clamour  of 
the  crowd  which  all  the  time  she  could  see  reinforced  by 
the  steady  black  and  white  streams  that  still  came 
down  from  the  railway  station.  Far  stretched  the 


408     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

sands.  Farther  on  she  could  see  where  tennis  courts 
had  been  marked  out  for  the  people  to  play  pat-ball,  or 
where  games  of  cricket  had  hurriedly  been  organised. 
Strokes  were  being  clapped,  cheered.  She  heard  hur- 
rahs, bravos,  mouth-organs.  Much  farther  black  specks 
danced  where  inexperienced  riders  suffered  proud  pangs 
on  hired  horses.  It  thrilled  her,  it  made  her  want  to 
plunge  into  this  life  so  large  .  .  .  And  here  was  an- 
other band,  a  denser  one  that  bellowed :  "  Boom ! 
BOOM !  PATaboom  .  .  .  squeak !  "  challenging  the 
other's  "  Tara !  Tara !  TantaKA !  " 

But  down  upon  the  sands  she  at  last  felt  alone.  The 
sun  beat  heavy  upon  her  head.  She  went  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  water  where  the  grown-ups  were  paddling; 
she  envied  those  people  with  tucked-up  skirts  and  for  a 
second  wanted  to  pull  off  her  shoes  and  stockings.  But 
still,  she  was  afraid :  to  be  seen  was  bad  enough,  but  to 
be  seen  paddling  .  .  .  She  felt  different,  and  this  in- 
creased her  loneliness.  So  for  a  long  time  she  went 
along  the  sands  where  everybody  was  picknicking,  where 
perspiring  fathers  with  immense  efforts  opened  bottles 
of  beer,  where  everywhere  was  a  crying  child  that  had 
got  lost,  except  where  a  mother,  already  tired,  dragged 
on  and  shook  something  that  screamed  and  wept  in  the 
characterictic  way  a  child  has  of  showing  its  pleas- 
ure on  Bank  Holiday.  She  stood  in  front  of  the 
Punch  and  Judy  Show.  "  PittywittyEEK !  Kerh-O ! 
Whatawhata !  KeeminuteeWEEK !  "  Punch  screamed. 
She  felt  so  lonely  in  the  midst  of  the  old  life  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  grew  conscious  of  Alf.  She  did  not 
yet  know  his  name  was  Alf,  but  Alf  it  was.  Alf  was 
rather  like  a  rat,  with  small  eyes  and  an  enquiring 
nose.  But  he  had  a  nice  smile  and  a  moustache  that 
made  one  think  together  of  the  military  and  the  hair- 
dresser's shop.  She  had  noticed  Alf  once  or  twice 
during  the  last  five  minutes,  sometimes  in  front  of  her, 
sometimes  by  her  side.  It  embarrassed  her  horribly  as 


409 

soon  as  she  realised  that  Alf  was  keeping  upon  her  that 
sharp  eye.  !Nbt  that  he  displeased  her;  she  liked  the 
moustache,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  think  that  this 
might  be  only  because  she  was  married  to  a  clean- 
shaven man.  Still,  she  was  rather  afraid.  She  walked 
on  hurriedly  a  few  steps  round  to  the  right,  behind  the 
Punch  and  Judy  show.  To  her  horror  and  delight,  as 
she  rounded  the  crowd  Alf  came  face  to  face  with  her. 

"  Hallo !  "  he  said     "  All  on  your  lonesome  ? " 

She  did  not  reply.  Her  heart  beat  heavily,  her  body 
was  in  tumult.  A  year  before  she  would  have  known 
how  to  snub  him ;  during  the  past  year  she  should  have 
learnt  how  to  ignore  him.  But  she  had  lost  the  art  of 
cockney  snubbing  without  gaining  the  art  of  aloofness ; 
she  had  been  something  and  had  become  nothing.  Alf 
came  a  little  closer. 

"  If  you  aren't  meeting  anybody  I  ain't  Is  'e  waitin* 
for  yer  round  the  corner  I  " 

"  jSTo,"  said  Sue  rather  miserably.  Of  course  nobody 
was  waiting  for  her  round  the  corner.  Then  she  real- 
ized too  late  that  she  had  spoken ;  she  was  caught.  Alf 
knew  it.  He  took  for  granted  that  they  were  to  pass 
the  afternoon  together.  He  told  her  it  was  very  hot, 
then  remarked  generally :  "  Hot  place,  Ramsgate." 
She  agreed  and  found  that  she  had  walked  on  two  steps 
with  him.  It  was  dreadful  and  delicious;  it  was  like 
drowning.  Alf  jabbered  on:  he  was  a  plasterer,  it 
seemed,  and  his  name  —  well,  she  could  call  him  Alf, 
she  could.  It  thrilled  her,  the  old  voice,  and  she 
laughed  when  he  pointed  at  an  old  man  with  a  bulbous 
nose  and  asked  her  whether  that  was  not  one  of  God's 
left-overs.  She  was  still  shy,  then  told  herself: 
"  After  all,  why  not  ? "  An  anxiety  seized  her.  She 
had  worn  gloves  in  the  motorbus  and  automatically  put 
them  on  again  after  lunch.  That  was  all  right,  but  she 
would  have  to  take  them  off.  So,  very  slowly,  as  she 
walked  by  Alfs  side,  listening  as  he  criticised  the  band, 


410     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

she  worked  off  her  left  glove  and  then  by  degrees  her 
wedding  ring.  It  was  sacramental  and  terrible,  this 
taking  off  of  the  wedding  ring,  and  as  she  put  it  into  the 
pocket  of  her  sweater  and  looked  at  her  bare  hand,  it 
seemed  as  if  she  had  thrown  her  old  life  behind  her. 

"  I'm  in  the  buildin'  line,"  said  Alf.  "  I'm  having  a 
week's  holiday  on  my  own.  Thought  I'd  come  here ;  it's 
rather  cheerful,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sue.     "  I've  never  been  here  before." 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  without  interest. 

Alf  did  not  want  to  know  much  about  her.  Indeed 
he  talked  busily  as  if  he  did  not  want  her  to  question 
him  too  much,  being  rather  conscious  that  if  his  wife 
had  not  been  ill  she  would  have  accompanied  him  that 
day.  He  must  divert  her  from  questions,  he  felt. 
"  Let's  have  a  bathe,"  he  said,  and  as  he  spoke  let  an 
admiring  gaze  rest  rather  heavily  upon  the  broad- 
breasted  young  woman  yet  so  girlish  in  her  white  pique 
frock. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Sue,  "  I  couldn't."  Her  eyelashes 
were  cast  down,  and  she  looked  quite  shy. 

"  G'on,"  he  said.     "  It'll  do  you  good  once  in  a  way." 

She  looked  up  at  him  merrily. 

"  Oh,  I  often  have  a  bath,"  she  said. 

"  Who'd  have  thought  it !  "  he  replied,  with  suitable 
raillery.  They  both  laughed  together.  "  P'raps  you're 
right,"  said  Alf.  "  Might  give  you  a  shock.  There 
was  a  man  at  Blackpool  once  .  .  .  ever  heard  the  story 
of  the  man  who  lost  his  waistcoat  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sue. 

"  Well,  there  was  a  Yorkshireman  who  went  down  to 
Blackpool  with  his  wife,  just  for  the  day  like  you  and 
me,  and  after  they'd  bathed  and  dressed  and  gorn,  ( I've 
lost  my  waistcoat/  he  said.  Well,  they  looked  for  it 
high  and  low  and  they  couldn't  find  it.  And  they 
looked  everywhere  at  the  doss  and  they  couldn't  find  it. 
Lost,  it  was." 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  411 

"  Well,"  said  Sue. 

"  Well,  that  ain't  the  end  of  the  story.  In  time  he 
forgot  all  about  it,  he  did,  but  the  year  after  they  came 
to  Blackpool  again  just  for  the  day,  and  he  hadn't  been 
in  the  bathing-machine  more'n  a  minute  when  his  wife 
heard  'im  shouting :  '  Maria !  Maria !  I've  found 
my  waistcoat ! '  '  Where  was  it  ? '  asked  Maria.  '  You 
wouldn't  believe  it,'  'e  said ;  '  it  was  under  me 
shirt!'" 

After  a  moment  required  for  the  full  taking  in  of  the 
story,  Sue  laughed.  Not  since  the  days  of  Ada  jSTuttall 
had  she  been  told  a  story  of  this  kind,  or  told  it  with  the 
animal  relish  that  made  it  worth  while.  She  laughed 
so  much  that  she  found  herself  natural  with  Alf.  She 
did  not  think  it  abnormal  to  be  strolling  along  the  sands 
with  him,  arm  in  arm. 

"  What's  your  name  ?  "  said  Alf. 

She  did  not  hesitate.     "  Vera." 

"  My !  "  he  said.     "  That's  rather  swell." 

For  a  fleeting  second  she  thought  that  that  was  the 
name  she  ought  to  have  had  if  grandma  had  not  imposed 
upon  her  family. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  I  rather  like  it." 

"  Vera,"  repeated  Alf,  with  relish,  "  that's  what  I 
call  a  name.  You're  one  of  the  girls." 

"Yes,"  said  Sue  automatically,  "one  of  the  gir- 
hirls,"  and  felt  frightfully  Nuttallish.  She  wished  that 
Ada  could  see  her  now ;  she  too  could  be  bold  and  bad. 
She  wasn't  Nuttallish  ?  Well,  you  wait. 

It  grew  hotter  and  hotter.  From  time  to  time  Alf 
swore  as  he  brushed  away  the  flies.  He  drew  her  to  a 
lemonade  stand  where  they  formed  part  of  a  long  file, 
waiting  to  be  served  with  something  yellow  and  faintly 
citric.  In  the  distance  the  big  band  descended  to  rag- 
time. "  Come  on  and  hear !  Come  on  and  HEAE ! 
Alexander's  Eag  Time  BAND !  "  She  drank ;  it  was 
cold.  She  felt  happy.  She  loved  everything.  She 


412     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

had  to  stop  by  a  fat  baby  who  was  perseveringly  trying 
to  thrust  the  head  of  a  doll  into  a  bottle.  It  laughed  at 
her  from  every  pink  crease,  and  she  bent  down  to  poke 
the  fat  cheeks.  She  was  no  longer  her  new  self,  she  felt 
she  was  again  just  Sue  Groby  as  she  remarked  to  the 
baby :  "  Oh !  you  ole  artful."  It  smiled,  and  Sue 
went  on  tickling  the  pink  neck.  "  Oh,  you  old  artful," 
she  said. 

Alf  's  hand  was  more  insistent  upon  her  arm ;  she  did 
not  mind  for,  after  all,  wasn't  everybody  doing  it  round 
her  now?  Too  hot  too,  and  the  sky  was  blue. 

"  What's  your  line  ?  "  asked  Alf.  ' 

"  Oh,  I'm  in  business,"  she  said.  He  understood  and 
did  not  press.  "  Staying  long  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Sue,  "  I'm  only  up  for  the  day." 

"  Where's  'e  gone  to  ?  " 

"He?     There's  no  he." 

"  Get  along.  One's  only  got  to  look  at  you  to  know 
there's  a  he." 

"  Your  brain's  dusty,"  said  Sue.     (Nuttall !) 

Alf  laughed.  They  approached  some  niggers  now 
who  with  bones  and  banjo  had  collected  an  immense 
crowd.  They  forced  their  way  through  the  edges  of  it. 
They  could  just  see  them,  the  black  smiling  faces,  glis- 
tening with  perspiration  and  grease  paint.  There  was 
an  odd  melancholy  in  their  lilting  song : 

"  To  the  cookshop  he  went  dashing, 
And  who  should  bring  the  hash  in 
But  the  girl  that  he'd  been  mashing 
By  the  sad  sea  waves." 

"  D'you  think  they're  really  blacks  ?  "  said  Sue. 

"  G'on,"  said  Alf,  with  immense  disgust.  "  You 
ain't  got  more  sense  than  a  baby;  of  course  they  ain't 
real  blacks.  You've  only  got  to  look  round  their  mouths 
an'  you  can  see  the  line  where  it  don't  match." 

"  I  see,"  said  Sue  humbly  and  somehow  pleased  to  be 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  413 

corrected.     He  felt  her  pleasure  and  bought  her  a  stick 
of  chocolate. 

And  so  for  a  long  time  these  two,  arm  in  arm  and 
now  with  linked  hands,  wandered  about  among  the 
children  and  the  hurdy-gurdies,  stopping  to  cheer  iron- 
ically where  men  had  stripped  off  all  they  dared  and 
threw  at  the  cocoanut  shies.  They  went,  loquacious, 
young  and  gay  among  those  other  people  that  ate  and 
made  love.  Alf  said :  "  Have  some  more  chocolate. 
Or  perhaps  not,  it'll  make  you  sick." 

"  It's  a  rumour,"  said  Sue,  not  quite  sure  that  this 
was  appropriate  but  quite  sure  that  it  was  Nuttallish.' 
The  afternoon  was  slowly  waning ;  they  went  back  upon 
the  front.  Beyond,  in  a  field,  was  a  miniature  menag- 
erie, with  the  mild-looking  wild  cat,  and  the  Siberian 
wolf,  hot  and  panting,  so  like  a  dog  that  it  made  one 
suspicious.  They  both  jeered  at  the  zebra. 

"  Give  me  the  Zoo,"  said  Alf.  "  This  is  a  fair  do. 
Tell  you  wot,  when  we  get  back  to  London,  I'll  take  you 
to  the  Zoo,  I  will." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Sue,  "  I'm  not  going  back  for  a 
while."  She  switched  off  from  this  dangerous  conversa- 
tion to  the  menagerie.  "You  know,  Alf,  that  zebra 
wasn't  bad." 

He  sniffed.     "  No ;  still  nothing  to  rip  oilcloth  over." 

Then  he  tried  to  persuade  her  to  be  photographed. 
"  Come  on,"  he  said,  "  just  you  an'  me,  'and  in  'and." 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't,"  said  Sue. 

"You've  got  to,  just  as  a  souvenir,  unless  you're 
afraid  my  face'll  smash  the  camera." 

He  was  obstinate,  and  she  felt  that  she  could  not; 
this  was  too  much.  Besides,  it  was  growing  late,  it  was 
nearly  five.  Already  the  boarding  houses  were  receiv- 
ing back  the  crowds  making  for  high  tea. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said. 

Alf  looked  at  her  surprised.     "  Go  ?  "  he  said. 
thought  you  were  staying  here." 


414     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Well,  near  here,"  said  Sue.   "  But — it's  getting  late." 

"What's  your  hurry?"  He  led  her  to  the  field 
where  was  the  roundabout,  where  couples  in  a  state  of 
extreme  superficial  amorousness  rode  upon  wooden 
horses,  wooden  geese,  or  yet  stranger  mounts.  But  she 
was  anxious,  she  was  afraid.  These  four  hours  on  the 
loose,  who  knew  how  she  would  have  to  pay  for  them  ? 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said  again. 

"Well,  I'll  go  along  with  you  for  a  bit,"  said  Alf. 
"  This  way  to  the  station." 

She  did  not  want  to  go  to  the  station,  but  she  trusted 
somewhere  to  see  a  bus  for  Broadstairs,  so  she  followed 
him  along  the  side  of  the  field.  Just  before  they  reached 
the  gate  and  before  she  could  stop  him,  he  threw  an  arm 
about  her  shoulders,  drew  her  close ;  she  struggled,  turn- 
ing away  her  face.  As  she  fought  she  heard  ironical 
cheers,  male  imitations  of  feminine  giggles,  and  dimly 
a  hymn  rise  from  a  religious  meeting: 

"  There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  BLOOD, 
Drawn  from  Emanuel's  veins.  .  .  ." 

"  Lemme  go,"  she  murmured.  But  he  held  her  fast 
and,  close-pressed,  tried  to  reach  her  mouth.  She  did 
not  hate  him;  she  did  not  even  know  that  she  would 
mind  if  he  kissed  her,  only  she  was  afraid.  She  heard 
the  religious  band  bray.  They  struggled.  She  grew 
defiant :  (t  Now  then !  "  and  drove  her  elbow  into  him. 
Still  the  band,  groaning  and  bloodthirsty,  still  he  pressed 
on,  and  she  felt  weak :  "  Oh,  do  behave  .  .  ."  she 
wailed.  He  laughed  and  finished  the  quotation :  "  Get 
a  shave,  Charlie,  do  give  over."  He  kissed  her  upon  the 
neck,  and  at  this  contact  her  purity  rebelled.  Hot  and 
ruffled,  she  thrust  him  back  against  the  gate.  "  Good 
afternoon,"  she  said,  head  held  very  high.  "  You're  a 
gentleman !  "  He  looked  at  her  angrily.  "  You're  a 
lady,  and  now  we're  both  liars !  " 

She  went  back  in  a  charabanc.     Under  her  fear  she 


RAMSGATE  SANDS  415 

was  still  excited  and  happy,  and  yet  half-crying  because 
she  did  not  know  exactly  what  had  happened  to  her  and 
how  strong  was  the  hold  of  the  old  life.  Then  a  terror 
seized  her.  Roger  might  be  back.  He'd  want  to  know 
what  she'd  been  doing  all  day.  She  felt  guilty  about 
Alf ;  after  all  she  had  led  him  on.  And  it  felt  dis- 
loyal to  her  new  class  too.  She  had  done  wrong;  she 
would  be  punished.  Supposing  somebody  had  seen  her 
and  told  ?  Whatever  should  she  do  ?  She  did  not  get 
to  the  hotel  until  half -past  six;  Roger  was  dressing; 
putting  on  his  tie.  "  Now  for  it,"  she  thought,  and 
then  more  shrinking;  whatever  should  she  say?  But 
Roger  did  not  look  at  her ;  he  looked  only  at  her  reflec- 
tion in  the  looking-glass.  Then  he  said : 

"  Hallo,  Sue,  been  out  for  a  walk  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  not  knowing  whether  to  add  any- 
thing. After  a  moment  Roger  said: 

"  I  came  in  from  golf  about  five."  Then,  half  de- 
termined to  leave  her  free,  half  indifferent :  "  Hang  it ! 
I've  spoilt  this  tie."  And  that  was  all. 

That  night  she  could  not  sleep  and  lay  crying  for  a 
long  time.  It  would  have  been  much  better,  she  dimly 
felt,  if  he  had  questioned  her  and  then  sworn  at  her,  and 
beaten  her  when  he  found  out.  But  he  did  not.  He 
had  hardly  noticed.  He  did  not  care  any  more.  She 
lay  awake  while  the  more  discreet  Bank  Holiday  of 
Broadstairs  died  away.  Some  of  the  Ramsgate  Bank 
Holiday  had  followed  her,  for  in  the  night  she  could 
hear  other  niggers  singing : 

"  To  the  cookshop  he  went  dashing, 
And  who  should  bring  the  hash  in 
But  the  girl  that  he'd  been  mashing 
By  the  sad  sea  waves !  " 

She  lay  with  her  face  upon  the  pillow  that  grew  hot  and 
moist  with  tears,  and  then  for  the  first  time  asked  herself 
whether  she  cared  any  more. 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND 

BEVERSION 


As  the  train  took  him  towards  Grove  Ferry,  Eoger  felt 
guilty.  For  he  had  set  out  immediately  after  break- 
fast, giving  Sue  the  quick  husbandy  kiss  of  the  occasion. 
And,  though  he  had  not  said  he  was  going  to  golf,  he 
had  taken  his  bag,  allowed  the  sticks  to  be  very  obvious. 
Now  the  golf  clubs  lay  in  the  cloakroom  at  Broadstairs. 
He  felt  himself  sink  deeper  into  deception.  Twice  he 
had  been  to  Grove  Ferry  on  the  sly ;  now  he  was  going 
to  Grove  Ferry  while  pretending  to  go  somewhere  else. 
That  was  worse.  "  It's  her  fault,"  he  reflected,  "  it's 
her  damn  jealousy."  And  he  hated  her  because  she 
seemed  to  be  driving  him  towards  deception.  He 
brooded  over  that  for  a  while.  Then,  by  natural  associ- 
ation of  ideas,  he  remembered  his  scene  with  Sue.  Yes, 
Theresa  too  had  been  a  little  deceitful ;  she  had  told  him 
she  was  going  to  Grove  Ferry,  and  she  had  not  told  Sue. 
He  wondered  why.  But  he  did  not  wonder  long,  for 
he  was  too  interested  in  himself.  Besides  he  could  not 
have  understood  how  much  Theresa  had  hesitated,  how 
guilty  she  had  felt.  He  could  never  have  understood 
that  she  intended  nothing,  that  she  just  wanted  to  drift 
and  take  her  chance  with  life,  and  that  she  obscurely 
wanted  to  live  in  a  garden  inclosed,  giving  the  key  only 
to  him.  He  would  have  been  shocked,  had  he  under- 
stood, for  to  him  Theresa  was  pure  to  the  point  of  saint- 
liness ;  so  it  would  have  been  delicious  and  yet  dreadful 
to  discover  that  Theresa  was' only  a  woman,  capable  of 
deceiving  because  she  lo1  .id.  The  concealment  of  her 


REVERSION  417 

abode  for  the  first  time  exposed  Theresa  as  a  woman : 
so  for  the  first  time  he  did  not  understand  her.  Roger 
was  a  little  like  Sue:  she  was  uncivilised  and  he  was 
young.  "  You  were  married  and  —  well,  there  you  are, 
there  you  were."  He  was  the  sort  of  man  who  can  be- 
lieve in  the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  bond  after  hearing 
the  decree  nisi  pronounced  against  him. 

As  the  train  rumbled  on  through  the  fields  of  Thanet 
that  look  like  an  imperfectly  reclaimed  sewage  farm,  he 
still  thought  of  himself  and  Sue,  of  the  fortnight  that 
had  elapsed  since  Bank  Holiday  when  she  had  been  out 
all  day  doing  heaven  knew  what.  Not  that  he  cared. 
He  understood  their  relation  better  now ;  it  seemed  made 
up  of  small  indifferences  to  each  other's  opinion  and 
occupations;  they  were  not  even  quarrelling  now.  To 
think  of  it  wearied  him ;  it  was  so  unstimulating,  and  he 
knew  that  Sue's  commonness,  of  which  he  was  now 
aware,  exasperated  him  into  a  priggish  and  patronising 
frigidity. 

Perhaps  he  was  a  prig,  or  perhaps  she  made  him  a 
prig.  If  it  was  her  fault :  what  a  grievance !  And  as 
he  felt  a  grievance  he  concluded  it  must  be  her  fault. 

It  was  very  good  in  Theresa's  garden,  an  old  long 
garden  bounded  on  three  sides  by  the  cottage  and  two 
white  walls.  At  the  bottom  of  the  garden  ran  the  little 
Stour,  half-hidden  behind  hedges  and  bulrushes  in 
flower.  They  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  cottage  and  after 
a  few  conventional  phrases  found  themselves  silent. 
He  thought  it  was  the  garden  interested  him,  and  it 
might  have,  for  it  was  beautiful.  Right  and  left  of  the 
central  lawn  ran  the  flower  beds.  At  regular  intervals, 
spread  upon  the  wall,  were  apple  trees  and  apricot  trees 
trained  as  fans.  In  front  stood  the  stooping  hollyhocks, 
the  foxgloves,  loaded  with  rosy  honeycombs,  the  lupins, 
rigid  and  tender  as  church  ornaments.  And  at  their 
august  feet  grew  smaller  plants,  mauve  asters  with 
golden  hearts,  shy  godetias  rooted  among  the  clusters  of 


418     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

shyer  aubrietia.  At  the  very  end,  where  the  bed  disap- 
peared into  the  river,  bloomed  pale  symbolic  lilies.  He 
liked  the  end  of  the  garden,  for  the  lawn  stopped  a 
dozen  feet  from  the  water's  edge  and  anything  grew 
there  that  chose:  rock  roses,  aggressive  purple  knap- 
weed and  pink  rest  harrow,  striving  to  hide  under  its 
own  leaves  .  .  . 

Theresa  suited  her  old  garden.  It  felt  very  lonely, 
for  they  could  hear  nothing  save  Elizabeth  singing  inside 
the  house,  and  sometimes  a  wet  sound  as  a  water  rat 
plunged  into  the  Stour.  She  was  all  in  white,  lay  slim 
in  the  deck  chair.  She  was  languid,  and  for  a  time  he 
watched  the  long  swaying  hand  that  played  with  the 
books  upon  the  ground.  He  read  the  title  of  one  of 
them,  Aucassin  et  Nicolette.  He  did  not  know  it,  but 
the  very  sound  of  the  words  charmed  him.  And  he 
liked  to  see  upon  her  lap  another  book,  The  Grettir  Saga. 
She  was  smoking  a  cigarette,  a  new  habit,  and  for  a 
long  time  he  saw  only  an  aesthetic  diagram :  slim  white 
fingers,  rosy  finger  nails,  curving  blue  smoke.  He 
wanted  very  much  to  tell  her  —  well,  what  did  he  want 
to  tell  her?  He  did  not  know.  It  felt  so  odd  here 
among  the  scents  of  flower  and  grass,  where  there  were 
no  sounds  save  the  water,  the  distant  call  of  a  bird  and 
the  busy  grumble  of  bumblebee.  He  gave  it  up  after  a 
while.  They  just  said  a  few  things  about  Sue's  health, 
about  golf,  which  Theresa  really  ought  to  play.  They 
even  talked  about  whether  it  were  easy  to  get  up  and 
down  to  town.  They  talked  commonplaces  as  if  they 
feared  intimacies,  or  as  if  all  the  intimacies  had  already 
been  voiced.  They  were  gayer  at  lunch,  when  the  woes 
of  Elizabeth  entertained  them.  Elizabeth  was  a  cock- 
ney and  could  not  understand  why  it  was  almost  impos- 
sible to  get  fish  near  the  sea,  while  the  local  fruit  was 
not  a  patch  on  what  you  could  buy  in  the  Edgware  Road. 
They  laughed  with  and  at  her,  and  Eoger  drank  too 
much  hock,  while  a  flush  of  animation  rose  into  The- 


REVERSION  419 

resa's  pale  cheeks.  It  was  not  until  after,  when  they 
sat  under  the  wall,  the  sun  having  shifted,  when  coffee 
had  been  made  and  drunk,  that  they  felt  themselves 
come  closer  to  each  other.  It  was  two  o'clock,  and  the 
heat  fell  not  too  oppressive  but  pressed  languid  hands 
upon  their  eyelids,  made  them  soft  and  content.  Sud- 
denly Eoger  said : 

"  I'm  very  happy  here." 

Theresa  said :  "  So  am  I."  Then  she  thought : 
"  How  wonderful  it  could  be  if  you  could  stay !  "  She 
had  a  vision  of  herself  and  Eoger  in  this  garden,  of 
course  with  the  flowers  always  blooming,  always  to- 
gether, always  easy,  practising  the  art  of  life,  which  is 
to  die  as  delightfully  as  possible.  And  it  could  never 
be.  She  sighed  and,  reacting,  wanted  to  tease  him. 

"  Wake  up !  "  she  said.  "  One  doesn't  go  to  sleep  be- 
fore a  lady.  I'm  s'prised  at  yer."  She  laughed,  mean- 
ing him  to  be  amused  at  her  cockneyism. 

He  shrank  away.     "  Don't,"  he  said. 

For  a  second  she  stared  at  him,  then  she  understood. 
She  bent  forward. 

"  Oh,  Eoger,  I'm  so  sorry  —  I  forgot.  Please  for- 
give me,  I  ..." 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Eoger  roughly,  "  I'm  used  to 
it." 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She  knew  Sue  had 
improved.  Yes,  but  of  course  it  was  impossible.  She 
felt  unhappier  than  ever  before.  She  could  feel  the 
whole  ache  of  him  passing  into  her  body  and  hurting 
her.  It  was  agony.  To  lose  him,  well,  if  she  must  — 
but  to  lose  him  and  to  see  him  unhappy  —  it  was  hor- 
rible. She  had  to  knit  her  hands  together,  so  violent 
was  her  impulse  to  throw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  draw 
him  close,  bury  his  eyes  in  her  breast  where  he  could 
see  nothing  and  hear  nothing,  feel  nothing,  be  conscious 
of  nothing  save  the  shelter  of  arms  open  to  none  save 
him.  She  was  lucid;  she  discussed  it  with  herself. 


420     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  It  could  only  make  things  worse,"  she  thought.  So 
she  bent  forward  again.  "  Koger,"  she  said.  "  Is  it 
as  bad  as  all  that  ?  " 

He  nodded.  He  seemed  afraid  to  speak,  like  a  boy 
of  twelve  having  his  first  caning,  who  wants  to  cry  and 
is  keeping  it  down. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  and  felt  inadequate.  But  she 
was  irritated  too,  for  she  was  being  baulked  of  the  ma- 
ternal function  that  belongs  to  every  woman  who  loves : 
she  wanted  to  comfort  him,  and  he  was  not  letting  her 
do  so.  Hesitating,  she  took  his  hand.  "  Tell  me,"  she 
murmured.  "  Tell  me  anything  you  like." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  as  he  gripped  her  hand  close 
she  saw  a  look  in  his  grey  eyes  that  made  her  think  of  an 
animal  that  has  long  been  hunted. 

"  What  is  there  to  tell  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  know  all 
about  it.  I  thought  I  could  teach  her.  I  can't." 

Theresa  made  an  effort. 

"  Try,"  she  said.  "  Are  you  not  impatient  ?  Are 
you  sure  you've  tried  enough  —  tried  in  the  right 
way  ? " 

"  Ten  months,"  he  replied.  Then  almost  to  himself : 
"  It  seems  a  very  long  time.  You  see,  she  doesn't  un- 
derstand. One  could  teach  her  if  she  understood,  only 
she  doesn't.  It's  —  it's  like  a  doll  that  says  pa-pa  when 
you  press  the  spring,  and  if  you  don't  press  the  spring, 
well  —  well,  it  can't  say  pa-pa ;  that's  all."  He  grew 
remorseful.  "  I  oughtn't  to  talk  to  you  like  this.  It's 
sort  of  disloyal,  only  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

Theresa  did  not  reply.  How  could  she  tell  him  what 
he  ought  to  do  ?  "  Go  on,"  seemed  brutal  and  silly,  but 
what  else  could  she  say  ? 

"  You  see,"  Roger  went  on,  "  oh,  never  mind  it's  being 
disloyal,  I  must  talk.  Don't  looked  shocked,  Theresa, 
that's  what  I've  come  to.  I  don't  care  whether  I'm 
disloyal  or  not.  And  there's  the  stiff  lip,  and  all  that 
sort  of  rot.  Well,  I  can't  keep  a  stiff  lip  any  more.  I 


REVERSION  421 

can't  teach  her.  She  does  things  in  public, —  I 
hate  telling  you, —  things  like  wearing  the  wrong 
clothes  ..." 

"Dear,"  said  Theresa.  "Isn't  that  a  very  little 
thing  when  one  loves  ?  " 

He  ignored  the  last  part  of  the  sentence. 

"  No,  it  isn't  a  very  little  thing  to  feel  uncomfortable 
and  ashamed  because  one's  wife  is  different  somehow 
from  the  women  one  knows.  There  it  is  all  the  time, 
this  difference,  reminding  one.  And  it's  not  only  that, 
it's  not  only  being  ignorant  and  not  knowing  the  right 
things, —  one  can  put  that  right;  but  it's  liking  the 
wrong  things  that's  so  dreadful,  the  wrong  people." 

"  Oh,  you  mean  the  relatives  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Roger,  with  sudden  fury.  "  D'you  know 
who  she  picks  out  to  try  and  chum  up  with  ?  A  kept 
girl  at  the  hotel  who's  staying  there  with  a  fat  old 
beast." 

"Roger!"  said  Theresa.  "Don't  be  absurd.  Of 
course  Sue  doesn't  know." 

He  turned  upon  her  his  miserable  eyes. 

"  But  don't  you  understand,  Theresa  ?  That's  just 
it,  that's  what's  killing  me.  If  she  knew  it  wouldn't 
matter.  One  could  tell  her  not  to.  It's  the  fact  that 
she  doesn't  know  the  difference,  and  I  can't  teach  her 
that,  I  can't,  I  can't." 

Theresa  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time.  Yes,  she  had 
never  seen  it  like  that.  And  Roger  went  on  pouring  out 
his  pain.  He  told  her  the  ridiculous  little  things  of  the 
past  year,  the  quarrel  with  the  carter  before  the  serv- 
ants, the  row  about  the  thick  tumblers. 

"  Oh,  don't  think  me  a  hyper-super,"  he  said,  "  only 
these  little  things,  they  go  on  all  the  time.  The  jewel- 
lery at  our  little  dinner-party, —  you  remember."  The- 
resa nodded.  "Well,  all  that  sort  of  thing;  it  seems 
so  small,  but  it  goes  on  and  on :  little  bits  of  shame,  little 
bits  of  irritation,  little  bits  of  despair  falling  upon  our 


422     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

marriage  like  the  drops  of  water  that  wear  away  a 
stone." 

Then  Theresa  made  an  effort ;  she  was  not  prim  and 
there  was  nothing  that  she  could  not  say  or  hear,  but  she 
felt  a  little  shy  of  this  point,  for  it  concerned  the  inti- 
mate life  of  the  man  she  loved  and  of  another 
woman. 

"  Aren't  you  forgetting,"  she  said,  "  the  biggest  thing 
of  all  in  marriage  when  you're  young  ?  The  —  attrac- 
tion between  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman,  well, 
you  know  what  I  mean." 

He  drew  away  a  little;  he  wished  Theresa  had  not 
said  that.  She  seemed  removed  from  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  in  her  snows.  He  might  talk  to  her  about  Sue's 
making  up  to  a  kept  woman,  but  that  did  not  imply 
that  she  might  talk  to  him  of  those  things. 

"  That !  "  he  said.  "  Oh !  You  don't  understand, 
Theresa.  We're  beasts,  we  men,  in  a  way,  and  even 
if  everything  else  has  gone,  even  if  one  despises  the 
woman,  well,  that  may  be  all  right.  But  not  me.  I 
don't  say  —  one  tries.  It's  a  sort  of  bridge;  just  for 
a  moment  one  thinks  one  loves  each  other  as  one  did. 
But  it  makes  me  feel  hateful  and  —  no,  I  can't  talk  to 
you  about  these  things.  But  that's  no  good.  Don't 
imagine  that  two  bodies  can  make  a  link  where  two 
spirits  have  snapped  their  chain." 

The  afternoon  waned  on;  she  felt  powerless.  They 
changed  the  conversation  and  talked  commonplaces. 
Then  they  returned  again  to  the  relations  between 
Roger  and  Sue,  and  they  said  exactly  the  same  things 
over  again.  And  still  the  afternoon  waned,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  western  wall  lengthened  upon  the  lawn. 
At  last  Roger  got  up. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  look  up  my  train. 
I  must  go." 

"  Oh,  don't  go  quite  yet,"  said  Theresa. 

He  looked  long  and  unhappily  into  the  dark  eyes,  at 


REVERSION  423 

the  mouth  where  now  was  no  mockery.  Dimly  he 
knew  how  very  much  he  needed  this  woman.  He  had 
not  yet  come  to  wanting  her.  He  knew  only  that  here 
he  was  happy  and  at  rest,  and  that  she  filled  him  with  a 
sense  of  eternal  happiness.  He  was  not  thinking  of 
Sue;  he  had  no  idea  of  guilt.  Those  rigid  principles 
of  his  did  not  reproach  him,  for  he  was  not  yet  com- 
mitting adultery  in  his  soul. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said  again.  Theresa  looked  at  him 
without  speaking.  He  bent  down.  "  I  don't  want  to 
go,"  he  muttered,  and  put  both  hands  upon  her  shoul- 
ders. "  I  don't  want  to  go,"  he  said  again,  with  the 
slim  shoulders  shaking  a  little  under  his  hands,  "  but  I 
must."  And  then  he  was  upon  his  knees  by  her  side, 
for  the  first  time  holding  her  close  in  his  arms,  and  no 
longer  kissing  her  upon  the  cheek  as  he  had  once  kissed 
his  good  comrade,  but  kissing  her  upon  the  lips  and 
holding  her  hard-pressed,  kissing  her  filled  with  despair, 
as  if  he  thought  upon  her  mouth  to  find  a  recipe  for 
healing  rather  than  a  fountain  of  delight.  She  did 
not  resist,  she  did  not  move.  She  was  too  weak  to  feel 
disloyal.  She  lay  in  his  arms  unresponding,  unrebell- 
ing,  as  if  fate  had  thrown  her  dice  for  her. 

II 

Eoger  and  Sue  felt  far  apart,  and  so  they  grew 
farther  apart.  They  hardly  noticed:  a  little  farther, 
a  little  nearer, —  what  was  that?  Roger,  it  seemed, 
played  golf  every  day  either  with  Mr.  Cawder  or  un- 
known friends.  Sue  found  the  making  of  friends  less 
easy.  Beyond  Mrs.  Cawder,  whom  she  still  puzzled, 
nobody  took  her  up  except  Miss  Grange.  She  was 
attracted  by  Miss  Grange  because  she  was  so  pretty  and 
seemed  so  innocent  even  when  she  told  dreadful  stories. 
She  hinted  to  Mrs.  Cawder  that  Miss  Grange  told  dread- 
ful stories,  and  the  old  lady  in  her  charity  said : 


424     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Probably  she  doesn't  understand  them  herself ;  she's 
too  young,  she  only  repeats  what  she's  been  told,  poor 
little  thing." 

Mrs.  Cawder  meant  to  be  charitable,  and  all  she  did 
was  to  encourage  Sue  further  into  compromising  her- 
self with  the  only  woman  who  could  compromise  her. 
By  degrees  Miss  Grange  became  confidential;  she  al- 
most told  Sue  the  truth,  and  Sue  accepted  it  because 
she  was  still  her  St.  Panwich  self:  one  was  a  bad  lot 
and  that  was  a  pity,  but  this  was  a  hard  world.  Sue 
was  not  as  some  women  in  her  new  class  who  in  private 
do  not  profess  to  have  any  morals  and  maintain  them 
only  for  public  exhibition ;  she  had  the  most  rigid  mor- 
als in  private,  and  so  in  public  she  could  afford  to  relax. 
Also  this  was  a  hard  world;  she  knew  that.  She  had 
had  to  live  on  bread  and  dripping  sometimes.  They 
didn't  know,  the  others.  But  still  Miss  Grange  did 
not  help  her  much  socially,  for  her  language  was  to- 
gether coarse  and  smart.  One  morning,  when  she  had 
ordered  gin  and  bitters  and  the  waiter  brought  her  gin 
and  orange  instead  of  gin  and  peach,  she  loudly  called 
him,  "You  blighter!"  and  asked  Sue:  "Wasn't  it 
bloodsome  ?  Wasn't  it  pink  ? "  It  seemed  to  Sue 
much  worse  than  the  real  words  she  was  used  to  in  St. 
Panwich  High  Street.  Miss  Grange's  oaths  were  to- 
gether gross  and  sophisticated. 

So  she  drifted  again  closer  to  Lizzie,  who  unveiled  to 
her  a  life  so  extraordinarily  like  her  own,  dreams  of 
the  stoker,  desires  for  sixpences  to  buy  peppermints  and 
seats  at  the  picture  palace.  And  a  greater  depth  too, 
for  Lizzie  had  been  in  trouble  four  years  before,  and  she 
wept  abundantly  every  year  on  the  fifth  of  April,  which 
was  the  date  of  the  baby's  birth  and  death.  It  was  very 
wrong,  Sue  thought,  but  still  life  was  hard,  and  people 
did  these  things.  She  had  been  educated,  and  she  had 
survived.  But  still  her  education  bade  her  not  to  throw 
herself  too  easily  into  the  arms  of  the  class  below  or  of 


REVERSION  425 

the  class  upon  the  edge.  It  would  not  do,  she  thought, 
and  she  was  still  loyal  enough  to  Roger  to  think  it  was 
not  fair  to  him.  That  was  the  end  of  love:  she  was 
doing  what  he  wanted  no  longer  because  it  pleased  him, 
but  because  it  was  only  fair. 

One  night,  when  Roger  had  disappeared  to  play 
bridge  somewhere,  she  could  no  longer  sit  in  the  lounge 
reading  The  Illustrated  London  News  or  obscure  jokes 
in  Punch  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  The  end  of 
August  had  come,  and  the  equinoctial  gales  were  pre- 
paring. She  could  hear  a  high  wind  flinging  what 
sounded  like  solid  water  against  the  glass  roof  of  the 
winter  garden.  It  tempted  her.  It  was  violent  out- 
side, not  like  this  lounge  full  of  discreet  conversation 
and  the  smoke  of  good  tobacco.  She  ran  up  to  her 
room,  not  knowing  what  she  wanted,  not  knowing  that 
it  was  just  a  sensation  of  freedom  she  wanted.  She  did 
not  even  change  her  shoes  but  just  threw  over  her  eve- 
ning frock  her  tweed  travelling  coat. 

Head  down  to  the  driving  wind  and  rain  that  in  an 
instant  soaked  her  hair,  flung  little  streams  down  her 
neck  into  her  breast,  she  wandered  through  the  town. 
It  was  ill-lit.  She  went  for  a  long  time  along  the  front, 
for  a  very  long  time  to  the  outskirts  of  Margate,  think- 
ing of  nothing,  feeling  only  a  relief  in  fighting  the 
heavy  north  wind.  One  could  touch  that  wind.  That 
wind  was  not  like  the  impalpable  difficulties  amid  which 
she  floundered.  Sometimes  she  stopped  to  thrust  back 
the  soaked  wisps  of  hair  that  stuck  to  her  face.  She 
was  tired.  She  stood  in  a  little  street  for  a  very  long 
time,  staring  at  a  mysterious  inscription  outside  a 

church : 

ADDOLDY 

Y  WESLEY  AID  CYMEEIG 
TKEFN  Y  MODDION 

She  did  not  even  wonder  what  it  was.  Vaguely  she 
thought  it  must  be  something  to  do  with  smart  society, 


426     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

so  no  wonder  she  did  not  understand  it.  She  went 
back  to  Broadstairs  very  fast,  for  the  wind  blew  at  her 
back  now,  carrying  her  on.  It  was  a  violent  night,  and 
yet  the  sea  had  no  waves.  It  rose  and  fell  in  the  vast 
curves  of  a  heavy  ground  swell.  It  was  like  the  breath- 
ing of  some  large  beast  turning  uneasily  in  stertorous 
sleep.  She  felt  alone,  and  she  stopped  a  while  to  listen 
to  the  sea  that  breathed  mouth  to  mouth  with  the  sweep- 
ing wind. 

Ill 

They  returned  to  town,  Eoger  full  of  determinations. 
His  marriage  was  not  a  marriage :  still,  there  were  lots 
of  unions  like  that.  He  must  make  the  best  of  his  life, 
make  it  up  of  other  things.  He  went  back  to  the  Set- 
tlement as  that  was  the  obvious  thing  to  do,  and  for 
a  few  days  his  work  interested  him;  to  see  Platt,  and 
Ford,  and  Churton  again  after  two  months  was  agree- 
able; they  were  renewed.  He  grew  quite  enthusiastic 
over  the  redecoration  of  the  lecture  room  and  had  long 
interviews  with  Forncett.  But  still  he  was  conscious 
of  a  peculiar  atmosphere  around  him ;  he  was  still  nota- 
ble. He  enjoyed  an  incomprehensible  popularity 
among  the  patrons  of  the  Settlement.  Then  he  forgot ; 
he  was  getting  used  to  it.  But  one  afternoon  he  left 
the  Settlement  just  in  time  to  meet  the  small  boys  as 
they  came  out  of  Clare  Street  schools.  For  a  moment 
he  stood  watching  a  little  group  that  eyed  him  smiling. 
They  were  nice  kids,  he  thought,  and  it  might  be  worth 
while  making  life  brighter  for  them.  He  gave  them  a 
paternal  nod  and  walked  on. 

He  did  not  want  to  pass  Paradise  Eow,  so  he  turned 
up  the  High  Street.  It  was  rather  crowded  and  yet, 
after  a  moment,  when  he  had  crossed  the  street,  he 
found  that  he  was  followed.  Five  little  boys,  a  silent 
and  smiling  group,  walked  about  six  yards  behind  him. 
He  stared  at  them,  and  they  returned  the  stare  with  ap- 


REVERSION  427 

parently  vivid  interest.  Uncertain  what  to  do,  he 
walked  on,  and  still  they  followed  him  into  the  High 
Street.  They  were  singing  something,  but  he  could 
not  hear  it  on  account  of  the  trams.  A  minute  or  two 
later  he  turned :  really  this  was  too  irritating.  "  Go 
away !  "  he  cried.  The  five  little  boys  smiled  at  him 
with  deep  relish. 

He  could  not  brawl  with  five  little  boys  in  the  St 
Panwich  High  Street,  could  he  ?  So  he  walked  on  still 
faster,  trying  as  he  went  to  catch  the  burden  of  their 
song.  On  reaching  Northbourne  Road  he  turned  sud- 
denly to  the  right,  hoping  to  discourage  them.  But  it 
was  no  use;  still  they  followed  him  as  there  were  no 
trams  here ;  at  last,  as  he  passed  the  town  hall  with  his 
procession  behind  him,  he  heard  their  song: 

"  That's  the  man 
That  is  'im. 
Everybody  says 
We  want  more  like  'IM." 

For  a  moment  as  he  walked  on  he  was  puzzled.  These 
beastly  little  boys  were  just  annoying  him.  He  thought 
he  had  better  go  round  by  the  gas  works  and  then  get 
into  Crapp's  Lane.  He  could  run  for  a  tram;  they 
wouldn't  follow  him  on  a  tram.  And  still  the  song  went 
on  with  no  further  variation : 

"  That's  the  man 
That  is  'im. 
Everybody  says 
We  want  more  like  'IM." 

Suddenly  he  remembered:  of  course,  the  Labour 
member's  phrase !  The  man  like  whom  we  want  more ! 
He  walked  so  fast  that  he  nearly  ran ;  his  cheeks  were 
burning.  He  rushed  along  Crapp's  Lane,  dodged  in 
and  out  between  barrows,  wildly  apologising  to  an  old 
woman  whom  he  caused  to  drop  her  string  bag.  And 


428     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

as  at  last,  ashamed  and  despairing,  the  five  little  boys 
running  hard  upon  his  heels,  he  at  last  managed  to  get 
on  to  the  Euston  tram,  the  two  last  lines  followed 
him: 

".  .  .  Everybody  says 

We  want  more  like  5IM." 

It  was  purely  instinctive.  At  Euston  he  took  a  taxi 
and  went  straight  to  St.  Mary's  Mansions  with  only 
two  thoughts  in  his  mind :  St.  Panwich  was  impossible, 
and  would  Theresa  be  at  home  ?  She  was  not.  Eliza- 
beth was  sympathetic.  She  liked  the  one  whom  she 
had  once  looked  upon  as  Miss  Theresa's  young  man, 
though  she  much  resented  his  not  having  married  her. 
She  made  him  tea,  as  he  decided  to  wait  for  Theresa. 
She  even  stood  and  talked  to  him,  tortured  him  with 
questions.  Notably  she  wanted  to  be  informed  whether 
the  new  Maida  Vale  Station  of  the  Bakerloo  would  get 
her  to  Bourne  and  Hollingsworth  quicker  than  the 
Number  8  bus.  He  said  "  Yes  "  and  "  No "  where 
required  and  sat  there  moodily  smoking  cigarette  after 
cigarette.  Would  Theresa  never  come?  He  wanted 
her,  he  wanted  her  very  badly ;  he  was  like  a  wounded 
man  who  thinks  only  of  the  time  when  the  nurse  will 
come  and  change  his  dressing. 

When  at  last  Theresa  came  she  seemed  to  know  at 
once.  It  was  as  if  they  were  linked  by  a  secret  inti- 
macy. He  told  her  in  a  few  words  and  then  looked 
at  her  rather  angrily,  for  Theresa  threw  herself  back 
in  the  armchair  and  uncontrollably  laughed.  "  Oh," 
she  gasped,  "  this  is  the  man,  this  is  'Im  .  .  ."  She 
pointed  at  him.  "  Oh,  Eoger,  Koger,  it's  too  funny." 

"  You  always  seem  to  see  something  funny  in  every- 
thing," said  Huncote  savagely. 

"  Well,  there  is,"  said  Theresa.  "  Everybody  says 
.  .  .  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  and  you  don't  know  how 
funny  you  look,  Roger." 


REVERSION  429 

He  jumped  up.  "  Oh,  well,  if  you  feel  like  that 
about  it,  I  may  as  well  go." 

But  she  too  leapt  to  her  feet  and  took  his  arm. 

"  Dear,"  she  said,  "  I'm  so  sorry,  I  didn't  want  to 
hurt  your  feelings,  but  do  let  your  sense  of  humour 
have  a  chance."  He  did  not  reply.  "  But  never  mind 
the  funny  part  of  it,"  she  said,  "  I  know  it's  hard  on 
you."  Half-unconsciously  she  pressed  the  arm  she  held 
against  her  breast.  He  felt  consoled  by  her  nearness. 

"  I  can't  go  on  with  the  Settlement,"  he  said,  more 
calmly. 

Theresa  hesitated.  "  Well,  perhaps  you  can't,  not 
you,  you  know.  Somebody  with  a  thicker  skin  per- 
haps." She  glanced  at  him  from  under  her  lashes  and 
thought  how  she  loved  him  for  his  absurd  delicacy,  for 
the  fastidious  quixotism  which  had  led  him  into  such 
misery,  but  might  yet  lead  him  to  delights  more  subtle 
than  could  be  given  any  other  man.  "  But  what  else 
can  you  do?  You  must  do  something." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger,  "  I  s'pose  I  must.  I'd  better  do 
some  real  work,  I  think." 

Theresa  looked  interested :  few  things  are  so  thrilling 
as  the  life  work  of  the  man  one  loves. 

"  I'm  a  bit  old  for  the  Civil  Service,"  he  said,  "  and 
besides  it  isn't  very  exciting,  is  it?  Or  I  might  read 
for  the  Bar." 

Theresa  shook  her  head :  "  Oh,  no,  not  the  law.  If 
you  want  to  do  any  good  there  you've  got  to  be  like  a 
two-edged  sword, —  one  edge  to  shear  the  plaintiff  with 
and  the  other  to  shear  the  defendant." 

He  smiled  and  that  made  her  heart  leap,  for  it  was 
she  had  made  him  smile. 

"I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  take  to  literature,"  he  said, 
"  that's  what  everybody  does  when  he  isn't  any  good 
for  anything  else."  He  smiled  bitterly.  "  After  all, 
I'm  qualified  to  write  a  novel ;  I  can  tell  the  story  of 
my  three  years  at  Oxford." 


430     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

She  did  not  respond :  literature  —  yes,  that  was  fas- 
cinating, but  what  if  he  failed  ?  It  would  be  so  horri- 
ble to  see  him  fail.  The  man  she  loved  could  not  be 
allowed  to  fail. 

"  Must  you  do  anything  ? "  she  said.  "  You're 
young,  you've  money  of  your  own,  you'll  have  more; 
can't  you  live  agreeably,  just  like  that,  doing  what  you 
like  and  not  doing  anything  in  particular, —  until  one 
day  you  get  an  impulse?  It  might  be  anything,  it 
might  be  literature,  as  you  say,  or  politics,  or  travel. 
You're  very  young,  you  see." 

It  hurt  her  just  then  to  feel  three  years  older,  per- 
haps too  old.  He  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said.  "  If  I'd  anybody  to  help  me, 
somebody  like  you  —  But,  oh,  no,  my  life's  wrong." 

She  came  closer,  and  half-consciously  he  tried  to  put 
his  arms  about  her  shoulders.  She  drew  back. 

"  No,  Eoger,"  she  whispered,  "  please  don't.  I 
haven't  said  anything  about  it,  but  I  haven't  forgotten. 
It  was  wrong,  what  we  did  at  Grove  Ferry."  He  did 
not  move  his  arm.  "  Please  let  me  go,  Eoger ;  you 
shouldn't  have  kissed  me.  I  shouldn't  have  let  you 
rather ;  it  was  my  fault." 

His  arm  dropped.  "  Oh,  all  right,"  he  said.  The 
flat  weakness  in  his  voice  hurt  her  abominably.  "  I'm 
no  good,"  he  went  on.  "What's  the  use  of  talking 
about  work  to  me  ?  I  was  spoilt  by  having  money  just 
as  others  are  spoilt  by  not  having  any.  Leave  me  alone. 
Others  have  suffered,  and  others  have  known  how  to 
live;  so  can  I." 

He  looked  away,  and  she  felt  in  torture  that  he  might 
be  looking  away  because  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and 
he,  manlike,  would  not  let  her  see. 

It  was  she  then,  not  knowing  whether  in  love  or  in 
pity,  seized  him  by  the  shoulders  and  drew  his  head 
down,  and  she  who  kissed  him  again  and  again,  who 
drew  him  close,  who  hid  his  face  within  her  arms.  She 


REVERSION  431 

was  not  thinking  now,  but  only  feeling  that  this  was 
her  man,  that  he  was  unhappy,  and  that  she  must  not 
let  it  be. 

IV 

Opulent  September  had  gone  and  October  too,  in  her 
robe  of  red  and  gold  leaf,  like  a  woman  no  longer  young 
who  is  still  beautiful,  yet  not  for  long  and  knows  it,  and 
smiles  a  little  sadly  in  her  rich  garment.  Then  passed 
November  that  is  like  a  long  weeping  maiden  in  a 
fulgent  robe  of  modest  mist.  And  December  was  wan- 
ing, active  and  fierce,  brightly  cold,  somehow  gay  as  if 
the  year  were  dancing  its  dance  of  death.  It  would  be 
Christmas  soon. 

Sue  was  almost  used  to  being  unhappy.  In  the  last 
three  months  life  had  become  again  desperately  like 
what  it  was  before  they  went  away.  People  had  come 
to  them  and  had  returned  their  hospitality.  She  had 
met  Theresa  once  or  twice,  but  evidently  Theresa  did 
not  like  coming  to  Pembroke  Square ;  she  was  innocent 
but  she  felt  guilty.  To  console  Roger  in  his  unhappi- 
ness  was  a  little  like  taking  him  away  from  the  wife 
whose  business  it  was  to  console  him.  Theresa  knew 
that  Sue  could  not  console  him,  but  still  it  felt  dis- 
loyal. ISTor  did  Sue  make  things  easy  for  her.  Since 
she  discovered  that  her  husband  had  gone  to  Grove  Ferry 
secretly  she  had  hated  the  interloper ;  she  had  suspected 
other  meetings,  many  meetings,  and  much  more  than 
there  was  in  them.  It  was  a  demonstration  of  her  new 
state  that  there  were  no  scenes  of  jealousy ;  Sue  was  too 
numb  to  be  angry  now.  Generally  she  felt :  "  Let  her 
have  him  if  she  wants  him;  I  don't."  There  were 
moments  of  rebellion  when  she  told  herself :  "  He's 
mine."  But  that  was  just  pride  and  passed  away  when 
Roger  sat  in  front  of  her  in  the  evening,  reading  The 
English  Review  or  the  bound  volume  of  Rhythm,  incom- 
prehensible things.  They  had  had  only  one  scene,  in 


432     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

October,  when  Sue  hinted  that  Roger  might  take  her 
away  for  a  fortnight  to  Biarritz,  just  like  the  other  time, 
to  celebrate  the  first  anniversary  of  their  wedding.  He 
was  moved  for  a  second,  then  he  said : 

"  Oh,  I  see.  You  want  to  make  an  annual  pilgrimage 
of  it?" 

"  Yes,  we  might  go  every  year.  It'd  be  nice,  wouldn't 
it?" 

"  Let's  go  a  little  later,  October's  so  nice  here ;  you'll 
be  glad  to  get  down  south  in  January  or  February." 

Sue  hesitated.  "  Oh,  it  wouldn't  be  the  same  thing. 
We  ought  to  go  the  very  same  day." 

He  was  irritated.  "  Oh,  don't  be  so  sentimental. 
What's  the  same  day  got  to  do  with  it  ? " 

"  I  see  the  day  doesn't  mean  much  to  you,"  said  Sue 
stonily. 

"  Doesn't  .  .  .  Oh,  but  what  is  a  date  ?  Just  be- 
cause we  happened  to  be  married  in  October  you  want  to 
consecrate  October.  One  might  think  you'd  got  married 
for  the  sake  of  a  honeymoon  and  a  white  silk  dress, 
and  flowers,  and  all  that  sort  of  rot." 

"  I  don't  think  it  rot,"  said  Sue,  "  but  anyhow  that's 
not  a  very  nice  word,  Roger." 

When  she  said  that  he  understood  why  the  villain  at 
Drury  Lane  occasionally  grinds  his  teeth.  So  this  was 
education. 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  he  said.  "  And  above  all  don't  be 
sentimental ;  I'm  not  that  sort  of  man." 

She  looked  at  him  with  brilliant  eyes. 

"  No,  you  aren't  that  sort  of  man,  I  know.  Wish  I'd 
known  it.  Wish  I'd  known  more  about  men.  That's 
what  comes  of  keeping  straight." 

He  looked  at  her,  more  unhappy  than  angry.  So  this 
was  what  he  was  doing  for  her,  making  her  cynical !  It 
softened  him  too,  but  as  if  she  felt  the  softness  she 
grew  angrier. 

"  I  didn't  expect  much  of  men.     Ma  —  my  mother 


REVERSION  433 

told  me.  Still  one  wants  a  real  man.  He  may  lift  his 
elbow  a  bit  and  all  that,  but  anyhoVs  he's  a  man,  the 
other  sort.  Not  a  dummy  in  a  glass  case  all  over  la- 
bels." 

"  Are  you  talking  about  me  ?  "  said  Koger. 

"  I'm  talking  about  nobody."  She  turned  away ;  she 
looked  dark  and  sulky  with  a  forward  pout  of  the  lips. 

He  said :  "  It's  quite  clear  you  don't  care  for  me  any 
more." 

"  Well,  do  you  ?  "  asked  Sue,  evading  his  question. 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Looks  like  it." 

"  Sue,"  he  said,  "  you're  making  me  unhappy." 

She  nearly  melted,  she  nearly  jumped  up  to  throw  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  but  she  had  her  proper  pride,  so 
she  did  not  move.  That  bond  which  should  have  been 
so  beautiful  was  broken.  He  was  unhappy,  and  she  sat 
cold  as  Anaxarete. 

On  a  December  afternoon,  as  she  climbed  the  stairs  to 
Mrs.  Groby's  tenement,  she  remembered  that  quarrel. 
She  had  not  said  anything  about  it  at  the  time,  being 
too  proud.  Mrs.  Groby  did  not  at  first  show  curiosity ; 
she  had  complaints  to  make  about  Mr.  Groby. 

"  Spends  too  much  time  at  the  club.  Tell  yer  wot,  it 
didn't  do  us  much  good,  'avin'  that  money  for  Muriel. 
Yer  father  stopped  some  of  it  every  week.  It  all  goes 
t'  the  same  place,  an'  Vs  gettin'  'ard  to  manage  when 
'e's  twopence.  Corsts  money  too,"  she  added  reflec- 
tively. "  The  other  day  I  arsked  'im  ter  put  a  bit  by 
for  a  rainy  day.  Waste  not,  want  not,  I  said.  And  'e 
said  'e'd  put  it  across  me,  'e  did." 

Sue  showed  dutiful  interest  in  her  father's  behaviour, 
in  Muriel  who,  it  appeared,  had  designs  on  the  Junior 
Cambridge  Local,  with  Matric  in  the  dizzy  distance. 
Perce,  it  seemed,  was  getting  on ;  the  most  junior  clerk 
having  gone,  he  had  been  promoted  and  now  showed  a 
red  half-circle  under  his  chin  as  his  collars  had  risen 


434     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

with  his  salary.     But  Sue  was  unresponsive,  and  at  last 
Mrs.  Groby  noticed  it. 

"  Wot's  the  matter  with  you  sittin'  there  like  — 
Mrs.  Groby's  cockney  failed  her  and  the  ancient  Sussex 
strain  came  out  — "  like  a  painted  lady." 

"I  don't  know." 

"  'Ad  a  rumpus  with  yer  ole  man  ?  "  Sue  did  not 
reply.  "  I  can  see  yer  'ave.  Well,  well,  one  'as  one's 
ups  an'  downs.  Shure  it  ain't  your  fault  ?  " 

"  You  always  think  it's  my  fault,  Mother." 

"  Didn't  say  it  was." 

"  Yes,  you  did ;  you  never  stick  up  for  me  as  you  do 
for  Perce." 

"  Perce's  only  a  kid,"  said  Mrs.  Groby  defensively. 

She  felt  guilty  and  would  not  have  liked  to  be  told 
that  a  mother  will  defend  her  son  better  than  her  daugh- 
ter. She  wanted  to  know  what  had  happened,  but  she 
found  it  difficult  to  get  it  out  of  Sue.  Her  daughter 
could  only  hint  vaguely  at  a  continual  coldness,  at  an 
estrangement. 

"  We  don't  see  each  other  much,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Groby  thought  for  a  while. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  nice  'ow-d'yer-do.  Married  people 
didn't  be'ave  like  that  in  my  time,  an'  yer  can't  even  say 
wot's  wrong." 

"  Everything,"  said  Sue. 

"  That's  the  same  as  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Groby. 
"  Yer  discontented,  yer  spoilt,  that's  wot  yer  are.  Yer 
ain't  got  'nuff  to  do.  If  yer  'ad  a  little  'un  in  th'  nur- 
sery an'  another  on  th'  way,  yer  wouldn't  talk.  Tell  yer 
wot,  I  don't  know  'ow  yer  manages  it  in  th'  upper  ten. 
Them  fine  ladies,  they  don't  seem  t'ave  children  like  us." 

"  P'raps  they  don't  want  to,"  said  Sue. 

Mrs.  Groby  meditated  this  remark.  She  had  heard 
about  that  sort  of  thing,  but  did  not  think  she  ought  to 
discuss  the  topic  with  Sue.  Sue  was  married,  but  was 
still  her  little  girl,  so  she  cruelly  remarked; 


REVERSION  435 

"P'raps.  It's  a  queer  world,  but  one  lives  an' 
learns."  Again  she  became  personal.  "  But  all  that's 
got  nothin'  t'  do  with  it  Yer  ort  t'ave  one,  an'  I'll  tell 
yer  for  why.  It  would  give  yer  somethin'  t'  do  instead 
o'  wanderin'  about,  lookin'  like  a  ghost.  Yer  married, 
so  wot  yer  want  is  a  couple  o'  kiddies  t'  take  yer  mind 
orf  it." 

Sue  thought  over  this:  yes,  one  did  want  something 
to  take  one's  mind  off  marriage.  But  she  said  nothing, 
and  Mrs.  Groby  went  on :  "  Besides,  it's  always  been 
like  that.  Yer  got  to  'ave  children.  It's  in  the  Bible. 
I'll  find  it  for  yer." 

Mrs.  Groby  brought  down  the  Bible  which  had  been 
given  her  when  she  was  a  little  girl  by  Great-aunt  Eliza- 
beth, and  made  a  lengthy  search.  She  had  a  vague  idea 
that  it  might  be  in  Leviticus.  But  it  was  not.  Nor 
was  it  in  the  Song  of  Solomon.  At  last  she  left  the 
Bible  open  and  went  to  the  marriage  service  in  the 
prayer  book.  She  was  not  sure,  but  she  felt  there  ought 
to  be  something  about  children  in  that.  While  her 
mother  struggled  with  the  difficult  language,  Sue  idly 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  Bible.  She  hardly  knew 
what  she  read;  she  thought  merely  that  she  was  un- 
happy. She  turned  over  the  flyleaf  where  her  mother 
had  written  a  few  days  after  her  wedding  a  curious  little 
statement : 

"Edith  is  my  name, 
Groby  is  my  surname, 
St.  Panwich  is  my  dwelling-placa 
And  Christ  is  my  salvation. 

When  I  am  dead  and  in  my  grave 
And  all  my  bones  are  rotten, 
If  you  will  glance  inside  this  book 
Then  I  am  not  forgotten." 

Sue  read  it  over  twice.     For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
that  sort  of  idea  meant  something  to  her.     Yes,  she  too 


436     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

would  be  dead  one  day.  It  was  not  only  other  people 
died;  it  was  even  people  like  her,  people  with  warm 
blood  running  through  them.  She  did  not  shrink. 
What  did  it  matter  ?  she  thought.  What  would  it  mat- 
ter in  a  hundred  years?  This  idiotic  idea  comforted 
her  a  little. 

Mrs.  Groby  had  at  last  found  what  she  wanted  in  the 
marriage  service  and  triumphantly  read  it.  Sue  did 
not  reply;  she  did  not  want  a  child,  and  thought  it 
fortunate  there  should  not  be  one.  She  did  not  know 
why,  but  she  vaguely  felt  that  it  would  tie  her  up  for 
good,  and  it  would  be  terrible  to  think  that  a  life  such  as 
hers  could  be  anything  but  temporary.  She  could  not 
bear  that  life  any  more.  Even  from  afar  it  was  impos- 
sible. She  could  not  bear  to  go  back  at  once  to  the 
stifling  place. 

So  for  a  long  time  she  wandered  in  St.  Panwich, 
chilled  by  the  coming  darkness.  She  did  not  mind,  she 
did  not  cling  to  the  High  Street  where  the  well-lit  win- 
dows of  Bubwith  and  of  Davis  combined  with  the  trams 
to  produce  a  sort  of  gaiety.  Unconsciously  she  began  a 
sentimental  journey.  She  turned  through  Paradise 
Square  into  Clare  Street,  passing  the  schools  where  she 
had  been  educated.  She  remembered  how  Ada  Nuttall 
had  got  into  trouble  for  not  knowing  what  counties  sur- 
rounded London.  She  smiled  as  she  repeated :  "  Sur- 
rey, Kent,  Sussex,  Middlesex  .  .  ." 

She  passed  a  sweet-shop  where  every  now  and  then  she 
had  bought  halfpennyworths  of  toffee  when  she  had 
that  rare  halfpenny.  She  thought  of  those  children, 
now  men  and  women,  lost  in  London  as  was  she.  She 
remembered  a  few  names :  Alberta,  and  "  Pudding  ", 
and  Jackie  Brown.  They  had  not  been  unhappy.  On 
Saturday  afternoons  they  had  gone  for  picnics  with  some 
bread,  perhaps  a  little  jam,  and  a  bottle  of  water  to 
Highgate  Fields.  As  she  walked  she  remembered 
earlier  picnics  still,  when  she  and  the  others  were  too 


REVERSION  437 

small  to  walk  so  far,  and  they  had  settled  for  the  after- 
noon in  the  waste  land  between  the  gas  works  and  the 
power  station.  They  had  not  been  unhappy  there ;  the 
boys  played  cricket  with  a  wicket  made  of  coats,  and 
Jackie  Brown  cut  his  knee  upon  a  sardine  tin;  they 
bound  it  up  with  handkerchiefs,  and  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  High  Street,  saying  he  was  a  cajerlty  in  the 
Bore  War. 

She  avoided  the  Settlement  and  wandered  up  Crapp's 
Lane.  Without  thinking  she  turned  to  the  left  into  the 
square  between  Crapp's  Lane  and  Northbourne  Road. 
It  was  an  open  square,  and  she  went  in.  There  was 
nobody  there ;  it  was  grey,  and  dark,  and  lifeless.  The 
hollybush  and  the  evergreens  shone  black  with  soot. 
But  the  square  thrilled  her,  for  round  the  base  of  the 
biggest  tree  was  a  bench.  She  had  sat  there  once  or 
twice  with  Bert.  Ah!  There  it  was,  just  the  same. 
The  bench  was  furrowed  with  age  and  rain  and  stank 
with  rottenness,  but  that  did  not  matter.  She  remained 
standing  before  it,  kid-gloved  hands  clasped  over  the 
gold  top  of  her  umbrella.  She  remembered  that  they 
had  scratched  their  initials  upon  the  bench  with  a  pin, 
and  wondered  whether  they  were  still  there.  It  was  not 
yet  so  dark  that  one  could  not  see,  and  for  some  time  she 
searched.  There  were  plenty  of  initials  on  that  bench, 
and  arrows,  and  hearts.  But  it  had  rained  a  great  deal 
since  then,  and  S.G.  and  B.C.  were  not  scratched  very 
deep.  She  remembered  that  Bert  had  not  his  knife  that 
day,  so  they  had  used  a  pin.  Pins  did  not  scratch  very 
deep;  perhaps  other  people  had  cut  their  initials  over 
theirs,  blotted  them  out.  Anyhow,  the  initials  were 
gone  like  everything  else.  She  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the 
mouldy  bench,  conscious  of  the  growing  coldness  of  the 
world  and  of  evening  time.  She  was  twenty,  she  was 
old.  Everything  that  had  been  was  washed  out  or 
rubbed  away.  Even  Bert  —  well,  she  only  had  herself 
to  blame.  Slowly  she  melted  to  the  memory  of  him,  and 


438     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

she  remembered  many  little  things :  Saturday  afternoons 
at  Hampton  Court  when  he  sculled  and  looked  so  nice 
with  his  hair  ruffled,  though  he  did  not  believe  it  and 
begged  her  not  to  spoil  his  parting.  And  the  day  when 
he  told  her  that  he  loved  her,  behind  the  gasometer. 
And  a  garnet  and  opal  ring  which  she  shyly  left  at  home 
when  she  married. 

It  all  seemed  so  wonderful  and  tender,  so  real  in  the 
familiar  streets,  the  very  streets  in  which  she  and  Bert 
used  to  do  their  courting.  She  did  not  know  what  made 
her  do  it,  but  she  found  herself  walking  along  North- 
bourne  Road  back  to  Crapp's  Lane,  past  the  gas  works 
and  then  quickly  along  John  Street  towards  the  mews,  as 
if  she  were  again  keeping  a  tryst.  It  was  darker  now, 
close  on  to  six  o'clock ;  Bert  would  come  out  in  a  minute 
or  two.  She  stood  in  the  silent  mews.  It  hurt  her  to 
find  them  silent :  in  that  short  year  motorcars  had  come, 
and  the  cab  horses  had  gone.  Her  mind  was  filled  with 
a  romantic  idea :  there  she  was  at  the  old  place,  almost 
waiting  for  him.  Supposing  he  too  were  to  come  into 
the  mews  for  old  sake's  sake  ?  They  would  meet.  It 
would  be  as  if  Providence, —  then  she  blamed  herself, 
told  herself  not  to  be  silly,  and  yet  remained  waiting. 
For  you  never  knew.  The  men  came  out,  first  one  by 
one,  then  in  groups  and  a  whole  crowd.  Posted  at  the 
corner  of  the  mews,  she  watched,  and  she  did  not  know 
why  she  watched.  Then  her  heart  grew  large  and  her 
limbs  a  little  numb.  Here  he  came  with  another  man. 
They  did  not  see  her  but  walked  away  towards  Crapp's 
Lane,  and  without  knowing  why,  she  followed.  She 
knew  he  was  going  home.  She  knew  his  mate  would 
leave  him  at  the  corner.  She  thought  herself  absurd 
and  accepted  the  absurdity.  She  thought :  "  Suppos- 
ing he  turned  round,  what  should  I  say  ?  "  So  much 
did  this  shake  her  that  she  suddenly  stopped,  let  him  get 
out  of  sight. 

At  once  she  felt  alone,  and  yet  she  could  not  go  home. 


REVERSION  439 

She  thought  she  would  go  back  to  her  mother's  for  sup- 
per after  telegraphing  to  Roger.  Yes,  she  could  not  so 
suddenly  leave  the  real  old  life  for  the  new  one. 

There  were  a  good  many  people  at  the  post-office  in  the 
High  Street,  and  she  had  to  wait  for  some  time  at  the 
telegraph  counter.  This  irritated  her :  to  send  that  tele- 
gram would  make  her  vaguely  feel  quit  for  a  while  of 
the  new  life.  At  last  it  was  done.  As  she  stuck  on  the 
stamps  she  grew  conscious  of  a  familiar  voice :  "  Penny 
stamp,  Miss." 

Nothing  had  been  said;  they  were  out  in  the  street, 
and  for  a  long  time  they  walked  side  by  side,  he  a  little 
in  front  and  she  following,  as  it  had  been.  As  if  by 
agreement,  they  turned  off  at  Crapp's  Lane:  they  did 
not  want  to  pass  the  Settlement.  At  last  they  spoke. 

"  Pretty  cold,"  said  Bert. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sue  humbly. 

"  I  should  say  we'll  have  some  snow." 

"  Seen  mother  lately  ? "  said  Sue,  changing  the  sub- 
ject. 

He  did  not  reply,  and  they  said  nothing  until  they 
passed  John  Street.  Sue  was  thrilled  because  he  had 
not  turned  off  where  he  should  to  go  home.  She  did  not 
know  whether  she  wanted  him  to  turn  off  or  not.  She 
did  not  know  what  she  wanted.  She  just  followed  him, 
and  he  let  her  without  knowing  that  he  wanted  to.  It 
was  simply  that  they  had  both  of  them  been  plucked  by 
chance  out  of  the  new  life,  planted  into  the  old  and  that 
already,  quite  simply,  the  roots  were  setting.  So  their 
little  talk  was  irrelevant.  She  said: 

"  One's  not  always  happy." 

He  stared  at  her,  and  for  a  moment  the  charm  was 
broken  as  he  said : 

"  Don't  see  what  you've  got  to  complain  about ;  you're 
married,  and  all  that." 

"  Oh,  married,"  said  Sue  bitterly.  "  It  depends  who 
you're  married  to." 


440     THE  STRANGERS'  WEDDING 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  never  thought  much  of  marriage. 
It's  only  a  social  contract.  It's  a  dodge  invented  by  the 
priests  to  get  hold  of  all  the  silly  fools.  That's  all  it  is. 
So,  of  course,  the  capitalist  state  got  hold  of  it,  capital- 
ists always  were  in  with  the  priests.  Still,  I  don't  say 
—  it's  handy  in  a  way." 

She  did  not  protest.  Bert  had  always  shocked  her 
by  not  respecting  marriage,  by  looking  upon  it  as  merely 
a  social  convenience.  It  was  nice  somehow  to  hear  him 
talk  as  he  used  to  even  though  it  did  sound  silly.  For 
one  moment  she  thought  of  marriage,  and  wondered 
whether  she  were  doing  wrong  to  be  with  him  like  that. 
She  sighed,  for  she  could  not  find  the  answer.  She 
blamed  herself,  and  yet  her  morality  was  still  un- 
changed, still  instinctive,  still  tolerant  of  the  irregular, 
for  life  was  very  hard,  and  there  you  were. 

"  I  see  you  don't  agree  with  me,"  said  Bert. 
"  Wooden-headed  as  ever."  She  did  not  reply.  "  You 
don't  want  to  talk  to  me,  do  you  ?  " 

Still  no  reply.     He  stopped. 

"  Look  here,  I  don't  know  what  we're  doing.  May  as 
well  say  good  night." 

She  put  out  her  hand  as  if  to  touch  him  and  remem- 
bered just  in  time  that  these  public  touchings  belonged 
to  a  class  she  had  left. 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  Bert,"  she  said.  "  You  know 
quite  well." 

"  Oh,  do  I  ?  "  said  Bert.  "  That's  just  what  I  don't 
know.  There  you  are,  living  in  your  fine  house,  with 
servants  and  motorcars.  You're  not  what  you  used  to 
be.  I  don't  mind."  He  corrected  himself.  "  I  mean 
I  shouldn't  mind  so  much  if  it  made  you  happy.  But  I 
don't  think." 

They  walked  silently  by  each  other's  side  again.  St. 
Panwich  was  left  behind,  and  they  were  nearing  High- 
bury. He  was  racked,  for  he  felt  her  unhappiness.  He 
wanted  to  say  something  to  comfort  her,  yet  knew  that 


REVERSION  441 

if  he  spoke  he  would  be  harsh.  And  she  wanted  so 
much  to  answer  that  she  was  unhappy.  They  went  for 
a  very  long  time  along  the  dark  streets,  looking  away 
from  each  other.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  now, 
though  forming  gradually.  First  there  was  a  tingling, 
then  a  sense  of  matted  eyelashes,  of  a  film  over  her  eye- 
balls, and  then  suddenly  she  could  not  see  at  all.  Her 
eyes  were  filled  with  water,  and  something  in  her  throat 
that  she  could  not  control  rose  and  fell.  She  stopped 
just  as  they  were  passing  over  Hertford  bridge,  clutched 
the  parapet,  her  other  hand  upon  her  breast. 

"  Well,"  said  Bert,  "  what's  up  now  ?  What  have  you 
got  to  complain  about  after  all,  with  your  servants  and 
your  fine  clothes  ?  "  He  grew  bitter  as  the  envy  in  him 
mixed  with  his  desire.  In  this  minute  he  hated  her 
because  he  loved  her,  and  somehow  she  had  removed  her- 
self from  him.  "  With  your  fine  clothes,"  he  snarled. 
"  No  wonder  you  don't  want  to  talk  to  the  likes  of  me 
now  you've  become  a  bloody  lady." 

Sue  gave  a  little  gasp,  and  her  hand,  groping  through 
the  darkness  that  lay  over  her  eyes,  found  his  arm, 
convulsively  gripped  it. 

"  Bert,"  she  said  gently,  "  don't  say  that ;  it  isn't 
true.  I'm  not  a  lady,  you  know  that,  really  I'm  not. 
Oh,  Bert,  Bert,  I  ain't." 

And  as  if  the  sudden  relapse  into  her  original  tongue 
had  loosed  in  her  something  that  had  been  suffering, 
beating  its  wings  against  golden  bars,  and  she  found 
herself  in  Bert's  arms,  not  crying  bitterly  now,  but  like 
a  child,  not  even  wondering  if  her  hair  were  growing 
untidy,  or  her  nose  red.  She  just  clung  to  him,  shak- 
ing all  over,  as  if  the  whole  of  her  were  melting  into 
tears. 

"  Cheer  up,  you  silly  kid,"  said  Bert,  moved  and 
angry  because  his  voice  was  husky.  "  Making  such  a 
show  of  yourself,  I'm  surprised  at  you.  Chuck  it,  I 
say." 


He  could  not  bear  to  see  her  cry  but  would  not  tell  her 
so.  And  then,  as  if  love  told  him  exactly  what  to  do,  he 
drew  her  closer  into  his  arms  and  gave  her  upon  the  lips 
a  good  heavy  kiss  which  was  that  of  a  brother  more  than 
of  a  lover. 


Roger  stood  in  the  hall.  He  had  not  come  home  to 
dinner,  and  it  was  ten  o'clock.  He  had  read  the  tele- 
gram, and  now  he  read  over  and  over  again  a  note  from 
Sue  which  had  just  come  by  a  messenger : 

"I'm  going  away  to  Bert.  I'm  not  coming  back. 
Never." 

So  it  was  over.  Queer!  He  was  neither  shocked 
nor  unhappy,  only  dull.  Yes,  it  was  all  over.  He 
should  have  expected  it.  What  should  he  do?  One 
thought  only  formed  in  his  brain :  Theresa.  He  would 
go  to  Theresa.  His  mind  took  a  more  practical  turn. 
How  hateful  it  all  was.  He  would  have  to  divorce  Sue. 
Well,  it  was  only  fair.  He  must  set  her  free ;  he  had 
spoilt  enough  of  her  life.  He  felt  moved  as  he  half- 
understood  how  much  she  must  have  suffered  before 
doing  this,  breaking  all  her  own  rules  of  faithfulness. 
He  pitied  her  so  much  that  he  almost  loved  her  again. 
But  that  was  over.  And  there  formed  in  him  a  sense  of 
lightness.  Poor  Sue,  she  was  free.  And  he?  Well, 
he  was  going  to  Theresa. 

As  he  put  on  his  coat  he  saw  that  something  else  lay 
upon  the  hall  table.  He  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  picture 
postcard  from  Perce:  the  bachelor  in  lodgings,  holding 
up  to  his  landlady  a  dead  rat  which  he  has  just  fished  out 
of  the  soup  tureen.  Underneath  were  the  words :  "I 
said  vegetable  soup,  not  Irish  stew." 

THE   ENT 


By  the  Author  of  "The  Stranger's  Wedding" 


THE  SECOND  BLOOMING 


By  W.  L.  GEORGE 

12  mo.   438  pages.    $1.35  net 


A  strong  and  thoughtful  story. — New  York  World. 

A  story  of  amazing  power  and  insight.  —  Washington  Evening 
Star. 

Mr.  George  is  one  of  the  Englishmen  to  be  reckoned  with. 
One  now  says  Wells,  Galsworthy,  Bennett — and  W.  L.  George. 

—  New  York  Globe. 

This  writer  has  entered  with  more  courage  and  intensity  into 
the  inner  sanctuaries  of  life  than  Mr.  Howells  and  Mr.  Bennett 
have  cared  to  do.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

Mr.  George  follows  a  vein  of  literary  brilliancy  that  is  all  his 
own,  and  his  study  of  feminine  maturity  will  find  ampla  vindica- 
tion the  round  world  over.  —  Philadelphia  North  American. 

It  is  a  book  which  is  bound  to  appeal  to  women,  for  it  is  so 
extraordinarily  true  to  life ;  so  many  women  have  passed  and  are 
passing  through  remarkably  similar  experiences.  —  London 
Evening  Standard. 

It  is  perhaps  the  biggest  piece  of  fiction  that  the  present  season 
has  known.  The  present  reviewer  may  frankly  say,  without  exag- 
geration, that  he  has  not  had  a  treat  of  similar  order  since  the  still 
memorable  day  when  he  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr. 
Galsworthy's  "Man  of  Property."  —  Frederic  T.  Cooper  in  the 
Bookman  (N.  F.). 


LITTLE,  BROWN  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 

34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTOH 


The  Racial  Characteristics  of  French  and  English. 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN 
ENGLISHMAN 


By  W.  L.  GEORGE 

12  mo.     Cloth.     $1.35ne*. 


Not  since  Thackeray,  indeed,  has  any  English  novelist  done  a 
more  impressive  study  of  the  typical  Englishman.  It  is  not 
only  a  good  story;  it  is  a  notable  study  of  national  character.  — 
Baltimore  Sun. 

Not  merely  a  splendid  opportunity  for  contrast  between  the 
temperamental  differences  of  French  and  English,  but  a  narrative 
of  earnest  merit.  We  are  met  by  a  full  world  of  English  char- 
acters. —  New  York  Post. 

First  and  last,  interesting.  It  is  crowded  with  impressions, 
glimpses,  and  opinions.  There  are  many  characters  and  they 
are  all  living.  .  .  .  Reading  his  book  is  a  real  adventure,  by 
no  means  to  be  missed.  —  New  York  Times. 

A  vigorous  novel  based  upon  the  process  —  constructive  and 
destructive — whereby  a  typical  French  youth,  mercurial,  pas- 
sionate, spectacular,  is  transformed  into  a  staid  and  stolid 
English  householder  and  husband.  —  Chicago  Herald. 

Mr.  George,  one  of  the  most  promising  of  the  younger  English 
writers,  has  shown  the  process  of  naturalization  from  a  more 
striking  viewpoint,  in  this  story  of  the  changing  of  a  Frenchman 
into  an  English  citizen.  With  this  purpose  and  his  nervous, 
irritable  nature  trouble  is  sure  to  ensue,  and  he  has  adventures  in 
plenty. —  Boston  Transcript. 


LITTLE,  BROWN  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
84  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


"Once  read,  will  not  quickly  be  forgotten."  —  Providence  Journal. 


UNTIL  THE  DAY  BREAK 


By  W.  L.  GEORGE 
12  mo.     Cloth.     $1.35  net. 


Mr.  George's  study  of  the  evolution  of  this  Israel  Kalisch  is  a 
remarkable  work  in  realistic  fiction.  —  New  York  World. 

A  novel  of  more  than  usual  value.  .  .  .  It  is  a  life-drama, 
such  as  is  going  on  continually  in  London  and  New  York.  — 
Hearst's  Magazine. 

The  story  contains  a  very  pretty  love  element  .  .  .  Such  an 
objective  picture  as  is  here  presented  will  do  more  than  sermons 
to  reveal  the  futility  of  the  sacrifice  which  anarchy  sometimes 
makes  of  noble  minds.  —  New  York  Post. 

Mr.  George  unquestionably  has  the  gift  of  description,  not 
only  of  places  but  of  men.  Kalisch,  egotistic,  self-confident, 
fearless,  making  his  way  from  Gallicia  through  Hungary  to  starve 
and  fight  in  New  York,  is  an  impressive  conception.  —  The 
Bookman. 

Israel,  Warsch,  Leimeritz,  the  various  women  who  successively 
love  Israel,  they  are  so  true,  so  vital  that  we  can  almost  see  and 
hear  them  speak  and  breathe.  Yes,  this  is  a  great  novel,  even 
though  it  alternately  fires  and  freezes  the  very  marrow  of  the 
soul.  —  Chicago  Herald. 


LITTLE,  BROWN  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


